


The Road to War

by LadyCavil



Series: The Road to War [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/pseuds/LadyCavil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan have set out to reunite with Aramis before riding to war, but does Aramis want to go to war? And if he does, what challenges will they face along the way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                From the time he could understand such things, Aramis knew he would never truly belong anywhere. His father was French, his mother Spanish. France's continual disputes and wars with Spain ensured that he would always be at least partially despised by his fellow Frenchmen. The matter of Spanish acceptance was a little more complicated. Spain took pride in pure lineage, pure blood. His mother came from a respectable merchant family with a purely Spanish heritage. However, the French ties of Aramis' father meant Aramis himself would never be looked upon with the same respect in his mother's homeland. He seemed to be doomed in either respect.

                Now news had reached the monastery of France's newly declared war with Spain. Since the messenger blew through town, bellowing the proclamation of war, Aramis found himself less often tasked with duties that would take him outside the monastery walls, especially those that would take him into town. This frustrated him immensely as he watched his fellow monks prepare for any number of events ranging from housing refugees to being besieged. Much of this work originated outside, the very place no one wanted him to go.

                It was not that Aramis was disliked among the others in the monastery; in fact it was because they cared so much for him that they attempted to keep him within the safety of the grounds. Anti-Spanish sentiment was running rampant, more than it had in years. Aramis supposed that they kept him close at hand out of fear for his safety, and while he appreciated the gesture because, God, it felt good to be looked after (something he hadn't quite felt since leaving his brothers behind), it was quickly becoming stifling. He wanted to saddle his horse and ride out into the countryside, leaving everything behind for a time, even if he only had a few minutes out there, wandering through the fields, wading in the creek that wound through the forest. His stomach growled at that thought. Oh the fish he could catch, and had caught, in that creek…

                The sudden placement of a hand on his shoulder made him jump and turn his head in surprise. He found one of the monks standing beside him with an amused smirk plastered on his face.

                "Miss it?" the man inquired. All of the brothers there knew Aramis had a tendency to spend many hours among the forests and the fields, and it was clear that the unspoken restriction placed upon his was quite a burden for a man so accustomed to freedom.

                With a last glance through the open east gate, Aramis turned away, hoping that for once 'out of sight, out of mind' might ring true. He nodded in response to the monk's inquiry.

                "It makes me feel like a coward," he said without thinking and suddenly realized that he had unknowingly stumbled upon the root of his recent aggravation and restlessness. Being kept inside the monastery made him feel like a coward. It was not like him to run from a battle or hide from danger. And yet there he was, hiding behind stone walls while his best friends were marching to war with Spain. How could this be anything more than cowardice? He was a soldier; he was meant to be courageous and brave.  _Not anymore_ , he chided himself and, not for the first time, silently begged God to release him from his oath of service or redefine the terms of it, if nothing else. Surely he could serve God  **and**  fight. After all, men in battle needed God just as much as men in monasteries.  _I belong with my brothers_ , he mentally sighed in his frustration.

                "Sometimes we mistake wisdom for cowardice and courage for foolishness. It is not always clear which is which." The monk offered a gentle smile, seeming to sense what Aramis was feeling and thinking. "I need your help with something if you're not too busy," the man called over his shoulder as he walked away. Aramis followed after, hoping to set his thoughts on other matters, even if only for a few moments.

                "There is a man asking after the fastest route to the Spanish border. I believe you are the most qualified for giving such instructions."

                Aramis nodded absentmindedly.  _I've half a mind to ride out with him_.

                "I have other matters I must see to. The man is waiting at the west gate." And with that, the monk went inside the main building, leaving Aramis to his task.

                On his way to the west gate, Aramis considered several different routes that would quickly bring the traveler to the border, but some of them were best left to more experienced riders. He would have to get some indication of the man's skill as a horseman and path preferences before settling on the 'best' and fastest way to reach the border.

                So lost in his thoughts was Aramis that he actually walked straight into the man he was meant to assist. Shocked by his own inattentiveness and apparent inability to walk and think simultaneously without incident, he hastily backed up, all the while spewing apologies for his blunder. He fell silent though when he saw the man's face.

 _PORTHOS!_ , his mind screamed, and every muscle in his body ached to embrace this man, his brother. His brain, however, failed to process all of the things racing through it. He stood there staring at Porthos.

_It can't really be Porthos, can it? Surely this man only looks like Porthos. But can someone look so much like him without being him? What if this man looks nothing like Porthos and I'm just seeing Porthos because I was just thinking about him? Would Porthos show up without the others? Has something happened to Athos and d'Artagnan? When did it get so hot out here? Maybe I should sit down. I'm being terribly rude to this man. What would my mother say if she saw me now?_

                "'Mis? 'Mis are you well?" Porthos was terribly confused. He had meant this to be a happy reunion with his brother.

                In truth, he had nearly strangled d'Artagnan when the boy insisted on gathering supplies before going to the monastery.

_SURELY SUPPLIES COULD WAIT UNTIL_ **_AFTER_ ** _HE MADE SURE ARAMIS WAS STILL BREATHING?!_

                It wasn't that Porthos thought Aramis had died during their separation, but the man did have a terrible knack for finding trouble. Athos, bless him, had seen Porthos' growing agitation and restlessness. Aramis and Porthos had not been so long separated in several years, and Athos had witnessed first-hand what such absence could do to the pair of them. Thus, Athos allowed Porthos to rush ahead and greet their friend.

                It was a terrible shock then that Aramis, seeing Porthos for the first time since leaving Paris, did not look even remotely pleased to see his brother again. Aramis had actually paled significantly which had prompted Porthos' questioning. Porthos observed his brother with keen eyes; Aramis was barely breathing, his eyes unfocused, and…trembling now?

                "Aramis? It's me. It's Porthos. Talk to me," he pleaded. All at once, Aramis' knees buckled, and his eyes rolled back. Porthos, with all the grace he possessed, stepped forward and caught Aramis, cradling him in his arms and heading inside the monastery.

\- : - : - : - : - : -

                Aramis woke to muffled voices (probably coming from outside his door, he decided) and endeavored to open his eyes. He could not escape the feeling that owed Porthos an apology although he could not recall why.

                When he finally managed to open his eyes and keep them open, he failed spectacularly at suppressing his immediate panic. His mind told him he should be in his room at the garrison, but what he saw was certainly not the garrison nor even the lovely apartment he kept in another part of Paris. His battle reflexes took over, and his gaze desperately moved about the room attempting to locate his sword, his pistol, anything that could act as a weapon. When his search ended with less than satisfactory results, he decided escape may be the best course of action.

                "Porthos!" Aramis yelled before falling from the bed, tangled up in the blanket, and managing to hit his head on the bed side table during his descent.

                "Aramis!" Porthos was instantly through the previously closed door and crouching beside his still-too-pale friend. Porthos extended his arms to steady Aramis who responded by clinging to him like a lifeline with one hand while the other cradled his now injured head.

                "Porthos," Aramis whispered as his surroundings finally began to make sense to him. He looked as if he was about to say more, but he suddenly turned pale green, the precursor to his stomach purging its contents. When it seemed Aramis' retching had run its course, Porthos gathered the once again trembling Aramis in his arms and settled with him on the bed.

                Aramis desperately wanted to protest being cradled like a babe, but he had missed Porthos too much and was now too weak to fight his friend on the matter. Instead, he relaxed into Porthos' firm yet gentle hold and laid his head against his brother's shoulder. He found himself on the shore of sleep's ocean but desperately fought to remain awake.  _What if this has all been a dream?_ Granted it had been a relatively unpleasant dream thus far, but a dream where Porthos was there with him was certainly one worth continuing.

                Porthos managed to pick the blanket up off the floor with the tip of his boot and reach around Aramis to grab it. Miraculously it had emerged unscathed from Aramis' sudden, albeit not entirely unexpected, stomach rebellion. As he set to tucking it around the man in his arms, he took note of Aramis' losing battle with sleep and guessed the reason for his friend's hesitation to give in. He placed a soft kiss to Aramis' mass of curls and whispered, "Sleep now, 'Mis. I'll still be here when you wake."

                Aramis gave the slightest of nods but still wouldn't sleep. He had something he needed to say, something he wanted to have said before Athos and d'Artagnan arrived.

                "I'm sorry I fainted. I had just been thinking about you, so when I ran into you, I was afraid I had only imagined it was you, but then you called me "'Mis", and only you and maybe Athos call me that, so it had to be you, andthenIfeltlightheadedbutmyfeetwouldn'tmoveandthenIfeltafoolforhavingeverdoubtedyouespeciallysinceI'veyelledatd'Artagnanfordoingthatverythingand-".*

                "Shhhhhh," Porthos interrupted. "You won't do yourself any good passin' out again 'cause you ain't breathin'." Porthos started gently rocking, hoping the movement might soothe Aramis and, God willing, send him to sleep.

                Aramis hiccupped several times while attempting to stave off the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.

                "Porthos, I am so, so sorry."

                And with that, the dam of Aramis' pent up emotion erupted, and tears began running freely down his face and onto Porthos' shirt.

                "I'm so sorry," he repeated as he burrowed his face into Porthos' shoulder.

                Porthos felt a rogue tear stray down his cheek as he understood what Aramis was truly conveying; his brother was apologizing for their separation. He was sorry for every moment they had missed together, all of the inside jokes that Aramis wouldn't understand because he wasn't around when they began, every mission that had gone well, every mission that had gone wrong. There were new scars that Aramis had not been around to tend to, and the list went on and on. It was true that Aramis had not been gone for a terribly long time as most would understand the passage of time, but for Musketeers, that same measure of time meant facing life-and-death situations hundreds of times over, and Aramis had missed it all.

                Porthos struggled to find the proper words to put Aramis' mind at ease, so he gently placed his head on Aramis' and began murmuring senselessly until he could come up with something infinitely more sufficient to say.

                "Hey, there. It's all gonna be fine.** Shhhhhh…"

                On and on he went until Aramis fell asleep; then he laid Aramis down on the bed and sat beside him. He began carding his hands through his best friend's hair, the motion helping him keep his own emotions in check. Then he switched verbal tactics and opted for reminding his brother of all their adventures over the years.

                "Remember the time when we…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Because it can be incredibly hard to read, "andthenIfeltlightheadedbutmyfeetwouldn’tmoveandthenIfeltafoolforeverhavingdoubtedyouand" is "and then I felt light-headed but my feet wouldn’t move and then I felt a fool for having ever doubted you especially since I've yelled at d'Artagnan for doing that very thing and".
> 
> ** "Hey, there. It's all gonna be fine" are lyrics from the song "Forgotten" by The Punch Brothers. When I listen to music while writing, lyrics work their way into the story. It's unavoidable.


	2. Chapter 2

                When Athos and d’Artagnan finally arrived at the monastery, Athos was also on the verge of strangling the young Musketeer. Athos was sure that if d’Artagnan’s curiosity delayed them for even a second more, their company would be short a Gascon.

“Where do you think they are?”

                Athos tried so incredibly hard to resist rolling his eyes, but by the way d’Artagnan’s stance shifted away from Athos, he figured he had still let slip some sign of his annoyance.

                “Let’s ask.” Athos winced even as the words left his mouth, his tone more clipped that it should have been. “Forgive me, d’Artagnan.”

                “I understand, Athos. We’re all worried about him,” the younger Musketeer reassured the older before moving to the main building.

                Athos walked alongside his companion and mentally kicked himself for the uncharacteristic break in his façade of emotional calm. d’Artagnan’s blatant statement of understanding was like a slap in the face, a cold bucket of water after a particularly long night drinking. Up until that moment, Athos had never considered the level of d’Artagnan’s level of attachment to any of the Musketeers but himself. Time after time, d’Artagnan had endangered his own life to save Athos, so much so that Athos was actually beginning to lose count. When Porthos was concerned, d’Artagnan at least seemed to care for the bigger man’s well-being. During the events with Bonaire and then Porthos’ return to the Court of Miracles, it was clear that some amount of brotherhood was forming between the two. But with Aramis…d’Artagnan always seemed irritated. He supposed this was an understandable thing to feel toward Aramis. After all, Aramis was exceptionally skilled in making light of anything serious (especially womanizing); he always had a joke or sarcastic comment at the ready and always followed up with one those cheeky grins. This trait had even enraged Athos early on in their friendship. All Athos wanted to do was drink away his past; all Aramis wanted to do was laugh the world away. To any who did not know Aramis well, as Athos did not at the time, that facet of his character appeared to be foolish recklessness; he seemed a child unaware of the woes of the world. Athos eventually learned that Aramis was more aware of those woes than most men he had ever met. The lightness of the Spanish-Frenchman’s heart was how he dealt with the weight of his mind and memories. So perhaps, if that was why d’Artagnan seemed eternally frustrated with Aramis, d’Artagnan could come to understand this of Aramis as well.

                Because of all of this, Athos realized that he had previously and subconsciously assumed that d’Artagnan cared less about Aramis than he and Porthos did. He couldn’t help but feel at least a little guilty because a part of him steadfastly believed this to be true. How _could_ d’Artagnan care as much? Aramis, Porthos and himself had been through so much together that it seemed impossible for d’Artagnan to carry the same level of affection and care and worry for Aramis. Even Athos did not claim a bond with Aramis equal to Porthos’, Aramis and Porthos having known each other for several years prior to Athos joining their tight-knit group just after the events of Savoy. Having considered this, Athos was both comforted and irritated by d’Artagnan’s words. They _were_ all worried about their brother, but he wasn’t sure d’Artagnan was capable of understanding as he claimed he did. _If he did, we would have arrived here hours ago with Porthos_.

                As it was, Athos and d’Artagnan entered the monastery’s main hall just as the sun descended behind the hills on the horizon. The building was relatively quiet, most of its inhabitants having gathered in the mess hall for the evening meal. d’Artagnan’s stomach howled dramatically as their noses filled with delightful aromas that promised a far more pleasant meal than the ones they’d been having on the road. d’Artagnan lifted a foot to wander in the direction of those glorious scents but was halted by Athos’ hand on his shoulder before he could move more than an inch.

                “Focus,” Athos demanded and quickly looked away before d’Artagnan could employ the puppy face. _Lord, give me strength_ , he thought, closed his eyes and released a deep sigh.

                “Excuse me, gentlemen. Might I be of assistance?”

                _Perhaps there is a God_ , Athos mused and turned to the man who had spoken. D’Artagnan quirked an eyebrow upon seeing the slightest of smiles tugging the corners of Athos’ mouth skyward. Athos ignored the expression completely and moved toward the monk.

                “Yes, our companion came here early this morning seeking a friend, one of the monks here. Would you happen to know where we might find them?”

                “Hmmm. There have been many coming and going today, preparing for war and what not. Do you know the name of the man your companion was seeking? Perhaps they have retired to his quarters,” the monk offered with a slightly apologetic expression.

                “Ara-,” d’Artagnan began but was abruptly cut off by Athos.

                “René. René d’Herblay.”

                “Ah, yes. Come, I will take you to them.”

                The monk began leading them to the sleeping quarters, and Athos mentally prepared himself for the barrage of questions he knew was coming. When he felt d’Artagnan come alongside him, he took a deep breath before acknowledging him.

                “Yes, d’Artagnan.”

                “I don’t understand.” Athos did his best not to respond with some comment absolutely dripping with sarcasm. Fortunately, d’Artagnan resumed speaking before Athos’ resolve could truly be tested. “René d’Herblay?”

                “His name.”

                “But…I…why? Why doesn’t he go by his name all the time?”

                “Why does anyone leave a name behind?” Athos was glad when, at that very moment, they arrived at their destination. It wasn’t his place to tell d’Artagnan what Aramis had so long kept to himself. _If d’Artagnan finds out anything more about Aramis, it’s going to be from Aramis himself_. It was a sort of unspoken code among the inseparables: the only past you reveal is your own.

                “Here you are. Should you require anything, ask any of the brothers. Should you find yourselves hungry, you are more than welcome at the evening meal.” The man smiled and then left Athos and d’Artagnan standing in front of the door to Aramis’ room.

                “Are we supposed to call him René?”

                Athos stared blankly at the door and played with the fingers of his gloves. Suddenly faced with the immediacy of the four brothers being united once more, he found himself excited and yet nervous, and these feelings were rapidly giving way to doubt. He was desperately trying to rebuild his wall of calm, but his mind was a battleground.

                _Everything is fine. What could possibly go wrong? Well, he could decide to turn his back on us. He could side with the Spanish. No, no, surely he wouldn’t, not when the war was started in defense of the queen’s honor. If Aramis chooses to fight, he will side with the French, with his brothers. Yes, with his brothers_.

                “Athos?”

                “Hmm?” Had d’Artagnan been speaking?

                “Do we call him René or Aramis?”

                “Aramis. To us, he is, will always be, Aramis.” They locked eyes and nodded. d’Artagnan’s eyes told Athos that he wasn’t satisfied with that answer nor any other given by Athos thus far but he would let the matter go for now.

                “Aramis it is,” d’Artagnan verbally confirmed, and Athos knocked lightly on the door. They heard a quiet shuffling sound before the door was slowly pulled open several inches.

                “Porthos,” Athos whispered and dipped his head in greeting. Porthos returned the nod and gave a small smile.

                “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come at all,” Porthos whispered as he moved to let them in.

                “Why are we whispering?” d’Artagnan shook his head and racked his brain for whatever cue had suggested the use of hushed voices.

                Athos paused in the doorway to answer the youngest Musketeer. “Recall what you know of Porthos and Aramis,” Athos began, turning d’Artagnan’s question into a teaching moment. “What are Aramis and Porthos typically like when they’re in each other’s company?”

                “Loud.”

                “And what are they like when one has just returned from being away?”

                “Impossibly loud for far longer than normal.” d’Artagnan rubbed his head as he recalled the last time that very thing had occurred and the migraine he had developed as a result of his brother’s incessant racket.

                “Exactly.” Athos said no more and waited for d’Artagnan to deduce the reason they were whispering. Porthos stood leaning against the door; his eyes were bright with amusement at d’Artagnan’s description of his volume level when Aramis was around. D’Artagnan was growing frustrated by Athos’ choice to make this a learning experience instead of simply answering the question. He exhaled and tried to put what he knew together to find the answer so the lesson could end and they could move on.

                “When we walked up, we didn’t hear any sound coming from the other side of the door. The room was too quiet.” He looked to his brothers for affirmation and found it in a slight nod from Porthos. Any relief he felt at finally being able to enter the room and sit down was dashed with Athos’ next word.

                “And?”

                “And?” d’Artagnan echoed.

                “There was a second clue.”

                d’Artagnan fought the exasperated sigh that was begging to be released. Instead he closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his mind. _Everything was quiet. Athos knocked. He heard Porthos get up to answer. The sound of it seemed cautious, as if he were sneaking. Why would he be sneaking in Aramis’ room? No, ‘why’ wasn’t important at the moment. What mattered was that Porthos was sneaking, and if Porthos was trying to be quiet, he and Athos should probably do the same._

                “Ah,” d’Artagnan verbally signaled his understanding, but as he looked to Athos, he knew he had to explain himself in order to satisfy his mentor. He quickly relayed the line of thinking that brought him to discover the second clue and subsequently understand the implication of said clue.

                “If we’re done out here,” Porthos nodded his head towards the room’s interior. “I think you’ve spent enough time in the hall, and poor d’Artagnan should sit down after wearin’ himself out with all that thinkin’.” His last words turned to laughter as d’Artagnan’s expression quickly became one of mock offense.

                “I demand satisfaction,” d’Artagnan returned in his best impression of King Louis. Suddenly the reason for their visit to the monastery was completely forgotten as the two began a wrestling match in the middle of the room.

                Athos’ quest to find safe ground ended with him sitting atop a table positioned at one end of the room. From his place in the room, Athos took note of four things. First, seeing Aramis had clearly improved Porthos’ mood which had become increasingly sour as Aramis’ absence wore on.

                Second, there was a faint odor in the room, was it vomit? A glance around the room revealed that the two windows were open, indicating that whatever the smell was, it had been noted and was being dealt with.

                Third was the location of Aramis. Athos knew he was in the room, but finding him in the small space while two grown men take up most of the space with their wrestling was no easy task. However, there seemed to be an Aramis-sized mound of blankets on the bed with Porthos’ blue cloak carefully laid on top. So Aramis was sleeping, the cause of Porthos’ long-abandoned quiet. Given the rapid cooling of the early evening air, Aramis had probably gotten cold, thus the addition of the cloak.

                Fourth and finally, Porthos and d’Artagnan were moving in the direction of a bedside table upon which a small planter box sat. It appeared Aramis had continued his practice of growing a few medicinal herbs in his room. The thought caused Athos to smile briefly until he recalled the impending doom headed for the window garden. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it and sat back against the wall. The mound on the bed was moving. His brothers had woken Aramis.

                d’Artagnan and Porthos were utterly stunned when, out of nowhere, they were assaulted by a pillow. They released their grips on each other and turned to face one hilariously agitated man.

                Aramis was standing beside the bed, the pillow held loosely at his side. d’Artagnan thought his hair looked as though it had been repeatedly licked by a cow causing it to stick out in several directions but hastened to banish the thought lest he laugh and further invoke the wrath of Aramis and his pillow. His shirt hung loosely on his frame, and his breeches were wrinkly. In addition to his disheveled clothes and hair, a blanket still clung to his shoulders like a majestic cape of slumber.

                d’Artagnan began to grow nervous as Aramis continued to stare at them, his gaze moving between the two men on the floor. As the moment dragged on, d’Artagnan wondered why Athos had not intervened on their behalf. It was then that he heard noise coming from Athos’ direction, but he lacked the courage to break eye contact with Aramis who was _still_ staring at them. Finally Aramis’ focus shifted wholly to Porthos. He said something quickly to the bigger man in language d’Artagnan was not familiar with (although Porthos clearly was) and then hit d’Artagnan once more with his pillow.

                Aramis dropped the pillow, shrugged the blanket off, and fastened Porthos’ cloak around his slightly shivering frame before moving to join Athos. Athos, having tried his best to contain his laughter at the sight of Aramis standing over d’Artagnan and Porthos with a pillow as his weapon, completely lost his composure when Aramis moved away to join him at the table. The way Aramis grinned the moment his back was turned to the others made Athos’ previous apprehension vanish, much the way the light of day chases away night’s shadow.

                “Athos.” Aramis said his name as if he had been dying to say it for some time.

                “Aramis,” Athos laughed and stood to embrace his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone read the Ranger’s Apprentice series by John Flanagan? Looking back over the previous chapter, I realized that the way I write Athos is very similar to Halt. I am not sorry. At all.

                “Porthos? D’Artagnan’s apprehension returned tenfold when he saw the wolfish grin crawling across Porthos’ face; the bigger man’s eyes were filling with a mischievous light. “Porthos, what did Aramis say to you?”

                “I’ll tell you later,” Porthos promised, and suddenly d’Artagnan became quite sure he never _ever_ wanted to find out what had been said.

                “If you two are quite done playing on the floor,” Athos commented and settled himself in one of the chairs around the table.

                Aramis shook his head, his grin only growing, as Porthos and d’Artagnan pushed each other to the floor in their haste to join their brothers at the table. Porthos got their first, grabbing the only remaining chair and spinning it so he could sit backwards and lean on the chair’s back. In that moment Aramis thought Porthos looked much like a dog excitedly greeting his master. There was so much infectious giddiness in the room he couldn’t help but laugh even more, and his renewed laughter seemed to set the others off once more. Several moments later they all settled into a companionable silence, content with simply being in each other’s company. Suddenly d’Artagnan’s face grew serious.

“The horses!”

                As he began moving toward the door, Athos sighed heavily and pushed the chair he had settled into away from the table. However, before he could even stand, Aramis was already across the room straightening his clothes and tugging his boots on.

                “Don’t worry, Athos. I’ll go with him,” Aramis reassured the eldest of them and winked. d’Artagnan, who had paused in the doorway when Aramis began speaking, took some offense at this.

                “I don’t need looking after. I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe in a monastery,” d’Artagnan said with a bit of a pout.

                “We’re not worried about your safety, d’Artagnan. It’s your ability to look after the horses we question. For a farm boy, you’re remarkably poor at caring for the creatures.”

                Aramis was gone the moment the words left his mouth, and d’Artagnan was so stunned by the return of Aramis’ long time joke that he didn’t even try to grab the man as he passed. In fact, Aramis had moved so quickly, d’Artagnan only registered the slight wind created by his passing.

                “I! He!” d’Artagnan looked between the two remaining Musketeers in complete disbelief. Of all the jokes Aramis had ever made about d’Artagnan being a farm boy, that one always seemed to elicit immediate irritation.

                “Yes,” came Athos’ cheeky reply. “He did.”

                “Are you going to let him get away with it?” Porthos was desperately trying to keep a straight face.

                d’Artagnan looked at Porthos, then Athos, and dashed away after Aramis. Athos and Porthos laughed heartily for a moment before the peaceful quiet settled once more, each man losing himself to his thoughts and memories. After a minute or so, Athos broke the silence.

                “How is he?” Athos’ question was barely more than a whisper.

                “Hard to say.” Porthos ran his finger across the wooden table top, tracing the patterns in the grain while he collected his thoughts. As he did this, Athos reached for the pitcher set to one side of the table and poured water into two of the clay cups sitting close to where the pitcher had been. He slid one across to where Porthos was and waited for him to answer.

                Porthos took a long drink followed by a deep breath.

                “He took one look at me and fainted.”

                Athos’ eyebrows drew together at the news, and Porthos played with his cup while determining how to proceed.

                “After I finally got him in here and comfortable, the abbot asked to speak with me. ‘E said Aramis has barely slept since word o’ the war came nearly a week ago, doesn’t eat much either. He paces constantly, and when he’s not pacin’, he’s lookin’ at nothin’, lost in ‘is thoughts.” Porthos paused then. The more he considered what he’d been told earlier that day, the more troubled he became. It was hard to hear that Aramis was obviously distressed, to know that Aramis needed his brothers and they hadn’t been there.

                “He’s not used to being a civilian while the nation is at war,” Athos supplied. “Not used to being left behind while we ride into battle. He’s probably been thinking of every possibility, every injury we could suffer while he’s not around to tend to us.”

                Porthos nodded once. If his earlier conversation with Aramis was any indication, Athos had guessed exactly the thoughts that were plaguing their brother. War was hard enough with brothers to fight alongside, but to be left behind? That thought must have been tearing Aramis apart.

                “He woke up while the abbot and I were talkin’. He fell outta bed an’ hit ‘is head on the way to the floor, gave himself a concussion.” He paused once more to finish drinking what water was left in his cup.

                Porthos’ mention of a concussion caused Athos to recall the smell he had noted earlier. If Aramis had a concussion, it could explain the source of the odor. Vomiting was common with head injuries.

                “He threw up and then fell asleep. He didn’t wake up until, well, you know.”

                It was Athos’ turn to nod, the movement accompanied by a faint chuckle brought on by the memory of what had pulled Aramis from his slumber. He sighed then and held his head in his hands while he attempted to sort through everything Porthos had said.

                “He’s gonna be fine, Athos. He just needed us, needs to be needed by us, if you know what I mean.” Porthos watched some of the tension leave Athos’ shoulders and clapped the man on the back.

                “Now,” Porthos continued as he stood and stretched. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starvin’.”

                Athos also rose from his seat at the table and walked to the door with slightly stiff legs.

                “The feeling is mutual, and I’d like to see if d’Artagnan has finally managed to best Aramis.”

                “Not happenin’,” Porthos snorted.

                “But Aramis is likely out of practice, and I don’t want to know how d’Artagnan will sulk if he manages to fail in defending his honor twice in less than an hour.”

                Porthos’ laugh echoed throughout the hall as they made their way to the stables in search of their comrades.

                “Even if Aramis _is_ out of practice, he’s been soldiering all his life. He’s got plenty of tricks up his sleeve. D’Artagnan doesn’t stand a chance.”

\- : - : - : - : - : -

                Aramis slowed his pace just enough for d’Artagnan to be able to follow but not so much that he gained ground. Having found the yard devoid of his companions horses, Aramis sprinted into the stables and pressed himself against the wall. He worked to slow his breathing; it wouldn’t do to be caught because he hadn’t run so hard for so long and was breathing loudly as a result. Hearing d’Artagnan’s footsteps draw near, Aramis stiffened and tried to become one with the wall.

                A second later, d’Artagnan barreled into the stables.

                And landed face first in a pile of hay.

                “Ha ha, very funny, Aramis,” d’Artagnan practically growled more frustrated with himself for being so easily tripped than with Aramis for tripping him. When he turned to speak again, he stopped. Aramis was no longer by the door.

                “Aramis?” He called, spinning around in an attempt to locate him.

                “Yes?” d’Artagnan could hear the smile in Aramis’ voice.

                “Where _are_ you?” d’Artagnan asked in wonder. Aramis seemed to have found the perfect place to hide; any noise he made spread throughout the stables in a way that masked where he was. D’Artagnan’s query was answered with a soft chuckle.

                “I’m not telling.”

                D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Aren’t we too old to be playing hide and seek?”

                “Never too old.” D’Artagnan quickly turned around when Aramis spoke; his voice seemed to have gone from coming from everywhere to coming from somewhere behind him. D’Artagnan smirked. He would gladly allow Aramis to give himself away.

                “I think Athos has a different opinion on the matter,” d’Artagnan replied, hoping he could keep Aramis talking long enough to find him.

                “You’ve never played hide and seek with Athos?” The voice continued to move around the stables.

                _This is ridiculous! How many places could he possibly have to hide in?_

                “You have?” He took a tentative step toward a stall as Aramis replied.

                “Often.”

                “I don’t think he’s played since you left us.”

                “That’s because Porthos complains when he has to find people.” D’Artagnan spun around. Aramis seemed to be behind him again. _HOW IS HE DOING THIS?_

                “I think I know why,” he muttered. He was prepared to give up and submit to Aramis’ prowess and superior knowledge of the stables when a thought struck him.

                “Why are you hiding, Aramis?” He let the words hang in the air for several seconds. He neither expected an answer nor received one. “You know I wish to defend my honor.”

                “Mmmmm.” The affirming hum was so soft d’Artagnan almost missed it.

                “So why do you hide? Will you not face me, Aramis?” He waited a beat and then another. “Have you turned… _coward_?” He held his breath. It was a risky move on his part, taunting Aramis in such a manner. D’Artagnan had seen the aftermath of the last time someone had uttered those words to Aramis, and it was not a pleasant sight. He heard a sigh, but, was that amusement he detected?

                “d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony,” Aramis said as he dropped from the rafters, “ **I** demand satisfaction.”

                After such a turn of events d’Artagnan was so thoroughly confused he could not even form a coherent thought, much less voice one. He kept looking up and every time he did so, he felt his cheeks redden further.

                _How many barns and stables have I been in? How many times have **I myself** hidden in the rafters? I came after him to prove him wrong, but I’ve done just the opposite!_

                Aramis couldn’t help but double over in laughter as he watched a range of emotions play out on d’Artagnan’s face.

                “I’ll give you satisfaction,” d’Artagnan spat as his embarrassment climaxed. “How will you have it?”

                “With swords, of course.”

                “But you don’t have a-“ d’Artagnan promptly closed his mouth as Aramis pulled a sword from one of the stall walls. “How? Where did you even-“

                “Less talk, d’Artagnan. I tire of your games.” Aramis took up his stance and gestured widely with his sword in hand.

                “ _My_ games? **_My_** games?” d’Artagnan’s voice rose an octave and the grin that was entirely Aramis spurred the Gascon into action.

                The duel lasted no more than thirty seconds before Aramis had d’Artagnan unarmed and lying on his back.

                “Do you yield?” Aramis inquired, wiping sweat from his brow. Their duel, however short, was no less intense.

                “Yeah, yeah,” d’Artagnan grumbled as he pushed the other man’s blade away from his person with the back of his hand and stood.

                Clapping broke out from near the stable doors as Porthos and Athos strode over to the pair.

                “Pay up, Athos. I told you he could still take the whelp. No offense, d’Artagnan.” Porthos yanked Aramis into a fierce hug while Aramis, having expended a great deal of his energy already, merely patted the larger man on the arm and let the hug last until Porthos decided to pull away. Even then, Porthos did not pull away entirely; he kept one arm firmly around Aramis.

                “How long have you been…?” d’Artagnan, breathless and more than a little chagrined for having been the object of a bet, felt the terrible need to know just how much his brothers had witnessed.

                “Since he lured you into calling him a coward,” Athos stated as he surrendered the promised payment to Porthos. D’Artagnan only nodded and response, and Athos made a mental note to speak with the young man later.

                “You’ve much improved since the last time we sparred, d’Artagnan,” Aramis encouraged.

                “Not enough apparently.”

                “Nonsense. I failed to conduct myself as a gentleman fully knowing it would cost you the fight.”

                “We’re going to war, Aramis. No one will fight like a gentleman.” Aramis knew where d’Artagnan’s line of thinking was headed and refused to let him continue.

                “Perhaps not, but here, in this moment, I should have.” Aramis ducked his head trying to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze. “d’Artagnan?”

                “I understand, Aramis.” D’Artagnan looked up, and Aramis felt satisfied with the confidence he saw returning to his friend’s eyes. Aramis nodded, indicating that the matter was closed.

                “Well,” Athos said, taking control of the conversation. “While the two of you were playing games out here, the abbot informed Porthos and me that the horses have already been tended to. He is also having food brought to Aramis’ room as we speak.” Aramis perked up at the sound of that, and d’Artagnan’s stomach moaned at the very mention of food.

                The four began strolling back to Aramis’ room when Porthos stopped thereby halting Aramis’ forward motion. Athos, having sensed the sudden and growing distance between them, looked over his shoulder. Porthos motioned toward Aramis with his head, and Athos returned to his conversation with d’Artagnan, understanding that, whatever was going on, Porthos was fully capable of handling it.

                “Aramis?” Porthos whispered in an attempt to keep d’Artagnan from noticing. He wasn’t prepared to answer the never-ending stream of questions that would surely occur as a result.

                “Mmm.” Aramis had closed his eyes and fisted his hand in Porthos’ sleeve, then leaned his head against his best friend. “Just a little dizzy,” he managed to whisper.

                “Uh huh.” Porthos wrapped his arms around Aramis. “Tends to happen when you don’t eat, don’t sleep, and whack your head on a table.” He wasn’t sure if Aramis’ silence pleased or worried him. “Look, the well’s a couple steps away. Think you can make it?”

                Aramis gave the slightest of nods, and they slowly shuffled to the well.

                “d’Artagnan’s gonna have questions, you know,” Porthos spoke as Aramis tried to pace his drinking.

                “I know.”

                After sipping more water and the dizziness passed, Porthos and Aramis resumed their trek back to the room. Upon entering, it was clear to the two that d’Artagnan did indeed want to ask or say something to them, but then he glanced at Athos and only commented on how divine their meal smelled.

                They all sat at the table filled their bellies with savory stew and still warm bread. The food itself was delightful, but as the meal drew near to its end, Aramis felt a tension growing in the room. Having no desire to let it continue, he decided it was his duty to end it, even if he was not the most direct in doing so.

                “So, how’s the garrison?” He innocently asked from behind a chunk of bread. The others looked between themselves to decide who would answer.

                “Like a beehive,” d’Artagnan offered.

                “I’m sure. I assume you’ve all been called to the front?” Aramis knew he hit a nerve by the way d’Artagnan quickly looked to his lap as if he would find the answer there.

                “Yes.” Leave it to Athos to be blunt. Aramis sat for a moment; his gaze shifted from Porthos to Athos and back and forth until he found the courage to speak.

                “Let me come with you.”

                No one moved. Aramis wondered if any of them were even breathing. He looked to Athos, knowing that he was always their de facto leader and so he would be the one to give the answer.

                The two locked eyes, neither backing down.

                “d’Artagnan, why don’t we take these to the kitchen?” Porthos suggested and gestured toward the now empty dishes. It was clear to him that Athos and Aramis needed a moment to discuss Aramis’ return to the Musketeers, and it seemed unlikely that this would be done effectively with d’Artagnan and himself as spectators. Porthos was exceedingly glad when his youngest brother understood and moved to follow without further prompting.

                “Aramis-,“ Athos began the moment the door was closed.

                “Athos, hear me out. I know that physically, I would be more of a hindrance than help as a soldier right now, but that’s not my only skill set. War means casualties. Casualties mean you need doctors. I know I’m not a physician, but I have experience with battle injuries, more experience than the city doctors that have probably been enlisted for the war. If Tréville won’t let me fight, surely he’ll see the wisdom in having me around to help with the wounded. Please, Athos, I’m begging you. Do not make me stay behind while the three of you lay down your lives.”

                “Tréville’s not the one you have to worry about,” Athos said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

                “Why not?”

                “He’s the new Minister of War.” Aramis was immediately glad that Tréville had been given such a prestigious position, but that would mean the Musketeers had a new captain…

                “Please tell me he made you captain. The men will not follow anyone else the way they would follow you.” Aramis’ posture now matched Athos’, and their nearness to the now-lit candles on the table caused the flames to jump and dance. The seriousness of Athos’ countenance gave way to his trademark half-grin, and Aramis smiled in return. “That’s marvelous! He could not have chosen a better man!”

                “Thank you. In truth, Aramis, we came here to persuade you to come with us.” Athos paused for a moment to allow Aramis time to process his previous statement. “Be that as it may, since arriving, I have been informed that you haven’t been taking care of yourself as of late.” He watched Aramis’ head fall and so rushed to finish. “As such, I cannot, in good conscience, return you to active duty as a soldier. However, I will reinstate you, and you may serve as a physician until I am confident you can hold your own on the battlefield.”

                Aramis slowly lifted his head as Athos spoke. “Thank you, Athos.” Staring at Aramis from across the table, Athos could no longer stand the distance between them. He rose rather abruptly and when Aramis stood to meet him, Athos pulled Aramis into a firm embrace. Athos would later deny having shed any tears while they lingered there as if that moment could erase the entirety of Aramis’ time away.

                “God, I missed you, brother,” Athos whispered.

                “And I you,” Aramis sighed before they pulled away from each other.

                “So…when are we leaving?” Aramis asked as he dropped onto his bed.

                “Is tomorrow morning too early?”

                “Absolutely not.”

                “Better get some sleep then,” Athos advised before hitting Aramis with the earlier discarded pillow.

                Shortly after, Porthos and d’Artagnan returned, and all made ready for bed.

                Tomorrow, they would ride for war.


	4. Chapter 4

                Morning came quickly, and Porthos spent much of it holding his sides, sore as they were from the sheer magnitude of his laughter. Aramis was brimming with an infinite wealth of energy and was incapable of standing still for more than a heartbeat which made for a rather amusing sight. Athos had wisely chosen to plaster himself to the wall while Porthos sat on the table. D’Artagnan, however, decided to attempt assisting their incredibly excited friend. Aramis kept up light banter with him, but every time he passed the younger man, he found himself moving him out of the way. Porthos and Athos watched with great interest as Aramis slowly grew unimpressed with d’Artagnan’s ability to forever be exactly where he was trying to go.

                “d’Artagnan!” Aramis finally proclaimed, eyes slightly wild.

                “Yes, Aramis?”

                Aramis took a deep breath and placed his hands on his hips. “I’m nearly finished gathering my things. Perhaps you’d like to see to the horses?”

                “Right, absolutely!” He said and hurriedly left the room.

                Hearing a snicker and a snort from behind him, Aramis turned raised eyebrows on Athos and Porthos.

                “What?”

                “I don’t think I’ve seen you quite this excited since…” Athos began.

                “Since we were sent to collect Emile Bonnaire in Le Havre,” Porthos finished, and Athos nodded his agreement. Aramis considered the words of his brothers, recalling the events that had transpired since that mission.

                “Much has happened since then. With Marsac, then Milady, and then the Queen…I forgot what it meant to be a part of a brotherhood. These past months have provided me with more than enough time to remember what it was that we had then, before our pasts came back to haunt us, before my present endangered us all.” Aramis looked down at his hands now fidgeting in front of him. “But that is all behind us now.”

                Porthos was glad that, when Aramis smiled then, his friend’s eyes were full of their former mirth and that mischievous glint that undoubtedly meant the best kind of trouble.

                “I actually think I’ve packed everything there is to pack,” Aramis said as he shook off any remaining melancholy his previous thoughts had brought about. “And I’ve already spoken with the abbot about my leaving. All there is left to do now is leave.”

                Aramis unleashed one of his most dashing grins, and Porthos’ face lit up in response.

                “Took you long enough,” Athos said. He pushed himself off the wall and strolled to where Aramis stood in the middle of the room. In one smooth motion, he squeezed Aramis’ shoulder, swiped Aramis’ hat, and fled the small quarters. Of course Aramis wasted no time in giving chase as his hat was one of his most treasured possessions. Suddenly the only one left in the room, Porthos glanced around and chuckled before tossing Aramis’ saddle bags over his shoulder and following after his companions. _No wonder Tréville treats us like children_.

                By the time all four of them were gathered together in the monastery’s yard, d’Artagnan had readied the horses and led them all out of the stables. Aramis had his saddle bags secured almost instantly and was perched in his saddle a moment later. Athos noted that Aramis’ horse Gelos had sensed his rider’s energy and began tossing his head and squealing in delight. Gelos even began lightly dancing around the yard in anticipation of the upcoming ride.

                D’Artagnan watched Aramis and Gelos interact and braced himself for the day ahead. He knew that being so close to Protestant territories had meant twice the trouble for his half-Spanish Catholic friend. The Protestants were not on good terms with the Catholics, and being Spanish so far north meant his heritage was likely making his life more difficult than necessary. As such, Aramis had hardly left the monastery in some time, and his long-dormant energy was beginning to resurface.

                “d’Artagnan, I swear if you do not mount your horse this very moment-.“ The young Gascon was pulled from his thoughts by the demanding tone of Aramis’ voice.

                _Note to self: Never keep Aramis in a contained space for long periods of time._

                He raised his hands in a gesture of peace before climbing into his saddle. “Happy now?”

                “Undeniably so!” And just like that, Aramis’ half-mad grin was back.

                Aramis wheeled Gelos around to face the open gate. “Can we go _now_?”

                The yard was immediately filled with Porthos’ howling laughter followed by the clattering of hooves as they finally made their departure from the monastery in Douai. They trotted two by two until coming to the wide open road leading away to the south when they moved to ride side by side.

                “Tell me again why we couldn’t just ride to Calais and take a ship south.” D’Artagnan did not have any reason to oppose riding their horses all the way to the French-Spanish border, but they could  avoid the soreness of riding if they sailed the whole way.

                “Because then we run the risk of dealing with the English,” Athos said, his tone indicating he was growing tired of repeating this.

                “ _And_ the Spanish,” Porthos added helpfully.

                “Athos hates sailing,” Aramis stated flatly. “What was it you said the last time we found ourselves on a ship, Athos? ‘If men were meant to travel the ocean…’”

                “Mmmm! He said ‘If men were meant to travel the ocean, they’d be born with fins’,” Porthos recalled and imitated Athos perfectly.

                Athos, who was not overly keen on being mocked, smacked Porthos on the arm. Meanwhile, d’Artagnan watched the exchange, feeling as though their world was finally returning to normal. Life as a Musketeer had become terribly dull without Aramis around.

                “d’Artagnan! How are things between you and Constance?” Aramis was becoming far too good at dragging d’Artagnan out of his mental wanderings.

                D’Artagnan’s face lit up instantly, and his change of expression from pensive to pure joy was so comical that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis could not help but respond with at least an equal level of mirth.

                “We’re married now!”

                “Congratulations! That’s wonderful! When did this happen?” Aramis came along side d’Artagnan and jovially slapped him on the back.

                “The day after you left actually. I was going to ask you to stay just a little longer for the ceremony, but you had already left when I went to find you.”

                “My deepest regrets, d’Artagnan! I am sad to have missed it!”

                “That’s not all!”

                “Not all?” Porthos and Athos peered around Aramis to see d’Artagnan whose face, if possible, displayed an even greater level of joy than it already had.

                “She’s with child!” At first, d’Artagnan questioned his decision to share his news with his brothers, for they had fallen silent for the first time since waking that morning. Athos’ mouth hung agape. Porthos stared at the youngest Musketeer and slowed his horse while Aramis’ horse had stopped moving altogether. All three recovered in the same moment, and all four found it hard to see through the tears of euphoria springing to their eyes.

                “That’s marvelous!”

                “The whelp’s gonna have a whelp of his own!”

                “Constance must be thrilled!”

                D’Artagnan did his best to keep up with the sudden chatter exploding from the mouths of all three of his companions at once. _They talk as much as women when they get excited._ He was about to inform his brothers of this when he thought better of it. _I’ll consider it parenting practice_ , he thought and allowed the deluge of conversation to wash over him. When their babbling finally died down and it seemed they had all run out of things to say, d’Artagnan thought it an opportune time to address something he had been pondering since the previous day.

                “Athos, is it true you play hide-and-seek?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named Aramis’ horse Gelos. Apparently Gelos is the Greek god of laughter, and in my head it seems right that Aramis, lord of smiling and joking, should have a horse named after a god of laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, unlike the previous four, italics indicate a language not French. When you read it, you’ll understand.
> 
> I watched the season/series 2 finale again and decided a few things. It’s all rather one event right after another, and I’m fine with that but only to a certain point. I draw the line at Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan riding off to get Aramis with such immediacy. I have a number of reasons for that, chief among them being that he left maybe the day before they rode off to fetch him; I feel like they would catch up to him before he ever got to Douai. I’m writing this story as if there was some actual time between Aramis leaving and the three going to get him. When Aramis walks away to leave for the monastery in Douai, it looks like autumn. I’m thinking it was late October at the earliest, maybe mid-November. In my head, they’re not going to begin a war right before winter begins. No one likes fighting in winter. So, I’ve decided that they spent the winter gathering forces, supplies, and whatnot and will begin the march to the border the moment spring arrives. As such, spring is also when Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan rode to Douai. That means Aramis has been gone for 4-5 months. Welcome to my head.

                When they made camp for the night, d’Artagnan was still far from pleased that Athos had, instead of answering whether or not he played hide-and-seek, changed the subject entirely. Even as Athos watched d’Artagnan tend to the horses, he knew they would have to take their youngest brother’s mind off whatever was truly troubling him. Surely he would not be in a foul mood simply because Athos did not answer his question. And so, determined to get to the root of d’Artagnan’s state of mind, Athos grabbed a stick lying on the ground nearby and poked Aramis in the ribs.

                Years of responding instantly to Athos’ silent forms of communication brought Aramis head up in immediate response to the stick in his side. Athos nodded his head in d’Artagnan’s direction and watched Aramis come to the same conclusion he had.

                “Do you have a plan?” Aramis whispered as he returned to his task of building a fire.

                “Does this require a plan?”

                “Sometimes.” Aramis turned his back on d’Artagnan when he heard Porthos approaching from the opposite direction.

                Porthos took note of the pensive expressions worn by Aramis and Athos and glanced at d’Artagnan, who had just finished with the horses and was heading toward his brothers. Porthos set his recently gathered sticks on the ground near Aramis before crouching beside him and feigning business.

                _“Have a plan?”_ Porthos asked while passing a handful of tinder to Aramis.

                _“Athos seems to think we don’t need one.”_

_“Well I suppose we could just make it up as we go.”_

_“Is that any different than what we normally do?”_ As Aramis spoke, d’Artagnan dropped onto the ground around where the fire was being built.

                _“Not at all_.” Porthos and Aramis exchanged grins while Athos and d’Artagnan looked unhappy about the language of the conversation.

                “What language is that?” d’Artagnan asked.

                “English,” Athos practically spat.

                “What’s wrong with English?” Porthos asked.

                “Come now, Porthos. You know he’s just moody because he can’t speak it.” Aramis’ smile broadened, not because he took pleasure in seeing Athos being left out, but because he could see that d’Artagnan’s interest had been piqued. It seemed that improvising was, in fact, the right course of action.

                “You speak English?” d’Artagnan inquired. As the question left d’Artagnan’s mouth, Aramis watched Athos’ head tilt back in a display of exasperation; his eyes seemed to be asking God what he had done to be stuck with someone who asks questions with such obvious answers. “Why?”

                “Why do we speak English?” Porthos wasn’t sure how he was meant to answer such a question.

                “Yeah, why did you learn it?” d’Artagnan’s face was the definition of eagerness and curiosity, and he was leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees while his head was supported by his hands.

                “Seemed necessary at the time,” Aramis responded and coaxed the fire to life. To his right, Porthos huffed a laugh at his brother’s understatement.

                “More like a life or death situation,” Porthos corrected.

                “Athos, do you know the story?” d’Artagnan asked, suddenly tired of Aramis’ and Porthos’ dramatic lead up.

                “I’ve heard bits and pieces, not enough to tell the tale myself.” Athos settled back against a nearby tree and released a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait for them to tell it.”

                _“We seem to have them at our mercy, Porthos,”_ Aramis chuckled as he rose to fetch their dinner supplies from their saddlebags.

                _“I love a captive audience,”_ Porthos called to Aramis and winked at Athos who shook his head and rolled his eyes.

                “I hate you both,” the eldest of them said with a completely straight face. This only seemed to encourage Porthos as the man’s smile increased to twice its previous size.

                “Aramis, let me help you with that,” d’Artagnan said as he raced to Aramis’ side in the hope of getting to hear the story sooner.

When they had collected enough for their evening meal, d’Artagnan took every bit of it from Aramis, declaring himself in charge of dinner. Aramis raised his hands in surrender and moved to reclaim his seat beside Porthos.

                “Let’s see…where to begin?” He huddled in his cloak and blanket and created a cocoon of warmth around himself, unwilling to be a storyteller while shivering in the cooling evening air.

                “Why not the beginning?” Athos suggested.

                “How very wise.” Aramis overdramatically dipped his head in deference. _“Porthos, where does it begin?”_

_“I’m not sure. I’ve never tried to tell this one before. Just start somewhere.”_

Aramis sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as he collected his thoughts, seeking out the best starting point in their tale. Deciding on a place to start, he took a deep breath and dove in.

                “I was twenty at the time, a newly commissioned Musketeer, and confident to a fault.” From beside Aramis, Porthos gave a grunt of agreement as he recalled what the two of them were like at the time of their English incident. Aramis nudged Porthos with his shoulder, and just before the two cold turn it into a wrestling match for the ages, Athos cleared his throat.

                “So you were young and cocksure…”

                “And I was engaged in…what most would consider a less than honorable profession.” Athos rolled his eyes while d’Artagnan’s posture spoke of his growing excitement.

                “Oh, just say it,” Aramis chided.

                “I was a pirate.” Seeing d’Artagnan was on the verge of becoming distracted by Porthos’ confession, Aramis quickly continued the tale.

                “So I was a green Musketeer and Porthos was a pirate.” Athos nodded his thanks for preventing the potential interruption. “This was far from my first mission, perhaps my third or fourth on my own. Tréville had just received word of a spy roaming the French countryside…”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “Aramis!” At the sound of the captain’s call, Aramis’ head instantly shot up and sought out his commanding officer.

                Tréville was striding toward the youngest Musketeer in the regiment with a missive in hand.

                “Captain,” Aramis said and tipped his head in acknowledgement of Tréville’s position.

                “I have a mission for you. I’ve not the time to properly inform you of the situation, but every detail has been written out.” Tréville firmly pressed the letter into Aramis’ hand and stepped so close that his mouth was next to Aramis’ ear. “Read it. Memorize it. Then burn it. Tell no one of your true purpose. Leave as soon as possible.”

                “Yes, captain,” Aramis moved to ready his horse, but Tréville’s hand on his arm stopped him.

                “Aramis.” Tréville waited until he had the young Musketeer’s undivided attention, then held his gaze for a moment more, praying to God his expression could somehow express the younger’s need to exercise extreme caution. “To tell you to be careful would be a serious understatement.” Aramis nodded his understanding. “Godspeed, Aramis.”

                Aramis nodded once more in deference to Tréville’s rank, and, placing the letter securely inside his jacket, turned to prepare for whatever task lay before him. Upon entering his room, he locked the door, wedged a chair underneath the handle, drew the curtains together, and opened his orders from the captain.

                He read it once, twice, and then a third time. Letting the paper fall to the floor, Aramis began packing with sudden urgency. It took him no more than a minute to complete, and having finished, he sank onto the edge of his bed. Immediately his left leg began bouncing and he carded his hand through his hair several times over, pausing now and then to rub at his forehead. He kept seeing the words on the page, the image of the black ink on pale paper burned into his memory. One sentence demanded his attention more than the others.

There is a traitor among us.

                Suddenly he shook himself from the shock of the news and grabbing the missive from the floor, he struck a match and allowed the flame to consume his orders. When the evidence was sufficiently destroyed, he snatched his saddle bags from his bed and took a deep breath before leaving his room. Tréville had made it abundantly clear that no one was to know of his mission. He would be a fool to fail the mission before even leaving the garrison because he was acting unusual. If this was to work, he needed to be convincing. Marsac was in the yard below, and if Marsac believed something was off about Aramis, he would be incredibly vocal about it. So, how to fool Marsac…He cast about in his mind for something to focus on, an excuse his friend would not question. Once he was certain he had a sound reason for leaving in a hurry, he left his room, heading straight for the stables.

                “Aramis!” Aramis nearly jumped when Marsac finally caught sight of him. ‘Act normal, just act normal,’ he thought even as he grinned and turned to face the approaching Musketeer.

                “Marsac.” The two embraced and exchanged slaps to the other’s back. As they separated, Marsac noticed for the first time that Aramis was carrying saddlebags packed for an extended journey.

                “Where are you off to then?”

                “Tréville’s given me leave. I’m going to see to my uncle in Le Havre.”

                “Ah, yes, your uncle in Le Havre. He’s the one you got the letter about a few days ago?”

                Aramis nodded solemnly. “He’s been like a father to me. If this is to be his end, I must see him one last time.”

                “Well, I’ve delayed you long enough, Aramis. Godspeed, brother.”

                “Try not to destroy the garrison while I’m away.” Aramis said in farewell.

                As he made ready his horse and subsequently rode out, Aramis was glad that he had chosen a cover story with an element of truth to it. He had hardly lied to Marsac at all, and that made the falsehood that much easier to sustain. He **was** going to Le Havre. His uncle living there **was** sick, and he **did** get a letter from one of his cousins several days prior. However, his uncle was in no immediate danger of dying, and he suspected he would have no time to visit his beloved relatives.

                Since discovering the nature of his mission, an uneasy feeling had settled in his stomach. As a Musketeer he understood that any mission could be his last, but never before had he actually entertained the thought that the current mission could truly be the end of him.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Much to d’Artagnan’s dismay, Aramis fell silent then. Athos saw d’Artagnan’s jaw twitch ever so slightly as the Gascon prepared to demand more of the story, so he quickly raised his hand toward the younger man, indicating that he should abandon any attempt to push Aramis. Having known Aramis for nearly five years, Athos understood from the look on his Spanish brother’s face that telling the story was taking its toll. For Aramis, mentioning Marsac was like lighting a fuse and then waiting for the explosion. In communicating his tale, Aramis had opened the door for just about every nightmare he had been fighting off for years.

                Athos felt a warmth in his chest, a deepened sense of pride in his brothers, when he saw Porthos, likely without even realizing what he was doing, subtly moving closer to Aramis. Athos stood and made a beeline for his saddlebags. After gathering in his arms what he hoped to be a sufficient amount of wine, he returned to their fire and passed a bottle to Porthos who promptly opened it and pressed it into Aramis’ hands. While d’Artagnan finally distributed dinner, Porthos managed to coax Aramis into drinking some, and Aramis, seeming to have returned from whatever memory he had lost himself in, nodded in gratitude.

                “Why Le Havre? How did you know to go there?” d’Artagnan finally broke the silence.

                “That’s what the paper said. Tréville had received information suggesting I would likely find the traitor or, at the very least, news of the traitor there.”

                “Oh,” d’Artagnan’s tone implied he felt he should have known that, as if it was obvious.

                Aramis was overcome with a yawn so huge and long-lasting that Athos thought it might never end. When it finally did end, Aramis let his head fall on Porthos’ shoulder and began blinking owlishly.

                “Perhaps we could finish the story tomorrow,” Porthos proposed. Just then, d’Artagnan also began yawning widely, and Porthos’ eyes were full of mirth as his mind compared his yawning friends to yawning cats. The similarities were nigh on impossible to deny.

                “I agree. Until tomorrow then,” Athos said with a note of finality that told d’Artagnan there was no way he could use his puppy eyes to change that decision.

                Barely five minutes later, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan had eaten and were asleep around the fire, and Athos had settled in to take the first watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s a bit different from my approach to the previous chapters, but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think! :)


	6. Chapter 6

When Porthos was pulled from sleep by d'Artagnan shaking his shoulder for the final watch of the night, he was genuinely surprised and then immediately felt terrible that he was shocked to have slept through the night thus far. Truthfully he had been expecting Aramis to be plagued by nightmares, something which never failed to wake Porthos in the past. It wasn't that he  _wanted_  Aramis to fall prey to the night terrors once more; he was pleased that Aramis had apparently slept soundly. But over the years he had developed a sense of when dreams would deprive Aramis of a night's rest, and that instinct had been screaming at him all evening, keeping him just on the edge of deep sleep so he could aid Aramis if need be.

It was nearly an hour before dawn when he heard Aramis' strained gasp. From where he stood on the other side of the small camp he could see the perspiration gathered on his brother's brow. As he drew nearer to him, he noted Aramis' relative silence.  _Not Savoy then_ , he noted with great relief. When Aramis dreamed of Savoy, he was never quiet. Porthos knelt beside him and pushed a few stray curls away from the sleeping man's face before his hand came to rest on his chest. A slight rustling coming from the other side of where d'Artagnan lay alerted Porthos to Athos' return to the land of wakefulness. A moment later, Athos' hand appeared on Porthos' shoulder as the older Musketeer joined him.

"Do you know what it is?" Athos whispered as he settled on Aramis' other side. Porthos shook his head, his eyes never leaving Aramis' now distraught face.

"Could be just about anything," Porthos sighed.

"Why can't he dream like normal people?"

"If you'd seen half the things he's lived through, could you dream like normal people?" Porthos hadn't meant for his words to sound like a reprimand, but as he observed the slight shift in Athos' expression, he knew that was how they were being taken.

"No. No, I suppose not," Athos whispered apologetically.

Several long moments passed providing no indication of how soon their friend would wake.

"I'll set some water to boil and resume the watch," Athos said, no longer willing to simply wait out the nightmare and understanding that Porthos couldn't possibly maintain the watch effectively while Aramis continued to suffer.

"Athos," he softly called after his friend. "Thank you." It was Athos' turn to nod as the older Musketeer set about his task.

Porthos' attention was pulled back to Aramis as the night terror seemed to grow in intensity. Oh, how he wanted to shake Aramis from the dream, to demand he wake this instant, but experience told him that to do so was potentially worse than allowing the dream to run its course. He shuddered at the memory of the last time he'd tried to wake Aramis from a nightmare; Aramis' eyes were empty and unseeing as though he was caught somewhere between the dream world and wakefulness. Coaxing his brother back to reality had been traumatizing for all involved and was not something Porthos would willingly endure again.

As the nightmare appeared to reach its climax, Aramis' head rolled back and forth, his brow furrowed with some yet unknown emotion, his breath coming in harsh gasps and his body tensing and twitching with the stress of it all. What Porthos could only describe as a choked sob escaped his sleeping brother, and the sound of it nearly caused Porthos to sob in response. Before he even realized what he was doing, Porthos was running one hand through Aramis' now damp hair and whispering any reassurance that came to mind, all the while praying d'Artagnan was still asleep. Aramis was incredibly private about his nightmares; the last thing they needed was d'Artagnan's damn curiosity getting involved.

Suddenly Aramis was free of his wretched dream. His eyes flew open, and he gasped for breath as though he had just resurfaced after a journey to the ocean's depths. Porthos ceased running his hand through his friend's hair and allowed his hand to settle on Aramis' cheek while his left hand sought out Aramis' hand. The contact grounded Aramis, as Porthos knew it would, and when their eyes met, Porthos felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Aramis sat up and let his head fall onto Porthos' chest, using the rise and fall of it to slow his own breathing. While Aramis worked to steady himself, Porthos moved his hand to the nape of Aramis' neck and warred with the urge to question Aramis about the nightmare.  _He'll tell me when he's ready. All I have to do is wait_ , he reminded himself.

The pair of them nearly jumped out of their skin when Athos appeared next to them, cup of Chamomile tea in hand. Aramis took the cup with slightly trembling hands, his thanks unspoken yet clearly expressed by the look that passed between him and the older Musketeer. Athos responded with a soft smile and then turned away to prepare breakfast since the three of them were unlikely to sleep any more that night.

While Aramis sipped his tea, Porthos spared a glance in d'Artagnan's direction. He was pleased to find the youngest was lying with his back turned to them. Either he remained asleep or had enough sense to allow them some privacy. Whichever it was, Porthos was glad.

"I haven't had that one in years," Aramis whispered and rubbed the heel of his hand over one eye. Porthos looked down at the man still nestled against his chest and awaited whatever would be said next. Aramis took a deep, albeit shuddering breath before continuing.

"It was my mother…"Aramis said, his tone suggesting he had intended to elaborate, but he found his throat so thick with emotion that to say another word seemed to be an impossible task.

Those four words spoken by Aramis felt to Porthos like someone had plunged a blade into his heart and then began twisting it slowly. His grip on Aramis' neck tightened gently, and his head came to rest upon Aramis' head still bowed against his chest. Even without further explanation from his distraught friend, Porthos knew exactly which nightmare had beset his brother, for there was only one that featured his mother.

"God, 'Mis, I'm so sorry," was all he could say.

When Porthos' mother died, the illness had not taken her so quickly that Porthos was not able to say goodbye. Aramis had been afforded no such luxury. A fire had consumed his home in a matter of minutes with his mother trapped inside. There had been not time for goodbyes, no final outpourings of affection. She was there one moment and gone the next.

Porthos was torn from his thoughts by a sudden moisture on his cheeks and the sound of Aramis' voice as he tried to console him.  _He's the one who had a nightmare, and he's trying to make me feel better_ , Porthos realized, unsure of when their roles had been reversed.

"Don't worry about me, 'Mis."

Aramis huffed a quiet laugh at that. "I'll make you a deal: I'll stop worrying about you when you stop worrying about me." Aramis raised his head to lock eyes with Porthos.

"Never gonna happen," Porthos said with a hint of a grin.

"Well, now that we've got that settled, I'm starving," Aramis smiled and made to stand.

"Aramis," Porthos began, not ready to let the matter go so easily. "You alright?"

"I will be."

Porthos was hardly satisfied with that answer. He wanted to make everything right, and he wanted to do so that very instant. However, the rational part of his mind told him that he had done as much as he could for the time being, so he let Aramis go and walked with him to where Athos had set out some bread and dried meat.

"It's not much," Athos offered as a sort of apology.

"It's better than grass," Porthos said with a shrug of his shoulders. Athos and Aramis nodded their agreement having had more than their fair share of missions wherein survival meant eating whatever was available, grass sometimes being the far better alternative to other, far less appealing options.

They settled in for their light morning meal, each man remaining aware of their surroundings for potential threats. It wasn't that they expected to be attacked so far north so much as experience had taught them that home could be just as dangerous as any other part of the world.

"We need to make a stop in Paris, make sure the garrison is still standing and whatnot."

Aramis laughed, a loud and clear sound that lifted Porthos' spirits, at the insinuation in Athos' statement.

"How do you think Tréville felt every time he was called away from the city?"

"It's a wonder he's not grey from the strain," Athos said with an ounce of empathy. Porthos found the topic hilarious, and his roaring laughter soon joined Aramis'.

His mirth was suddenly dampened when a boot sailed through the air and hit his arm.

"D'ARTAGNAN!" Porthos bellowed as he leapt to his feet with the intent of teaching the young Gascon a thing or two about throwing boots.

"Oi! Mind the food!" Aramis yelped as he stretched to save their meal.

"Indeed!" Athos scrambled to aid Aramis in his efforts while Porthos crossed the small camp with frightening speed.

It was then that d'Artagnan began to question his decision to provoke Porthos when he himself had only just woke up. When his brain registered Porthos lunging in his direction, his limbs were slow in reacting, resulting in his scrambling backwards on his hands and feet.

"Porthos! Now, Porthos, be reasonable!" d'Artagnan pleaded when he finally managed to get his legs under him.

"Whelp!" Porthos practically barked. And with that, d'Artagnan turned and ran.

Across the camp, Athos and Aramis were holding their sides, their laughter filling the air. Now and then they would find themselves with enough breath to call encouragement to Porthos, shouting everything from "Go, Porthos!" to "Tackle him already!". The light of the rising sun was adding to the drama of the moment, giving everything a golden glow.

d'Artagnan looked behind him and, upon seeing Porthos quickly closing the gap between them, decided to change tactics. He circled around the camp before throwing himself to the ground, sliding to a halt behind Aramis.

"What?! No, no, no, no, no, no, no," Aramis sputtered and attempted to roll away, but d'Artagnan grabbed his shoulders and held him fast, using him as a shield against Porthos' wrath. Porthos slowed his approach, unwilling to involve Aramis in his quest for revenge, but did not cease forward motion.

"Come now, Porthos. Surely you don't want to hurt Aramis' pretty face?" d'Artagnan called from behind Aramis.

" _ **I'LL**_  hurt  _ **your**_  pretty face if you don't unhand me!" Aramis struggled wildly for show. He and Porthos had come to the same conclusion only a moment before: d'Artagnan had forgotten Athos. If Aramis and Porthos could keep d'Artagnan distracted long enough…

Porthos feinted a lunge, and d'Artagnan flinched back. The youngest's backward motion carried him straight to where Athos was waiting. As soon as d'Artagnan was within reach, Atos began mercilessly tickling him; d'Artagnan instinctively pulled his arms to his chest in an attempt to defend himself, releasing Aramis who quickly rolled away from d'Artagnan's flailing limbs.

Porthos and Aramis stood back for a moment before Porthos tired of spectating.

"My turn, Athos," Porthos said with a grin.

The moment Athos relented, d'Artagnan was up again in an attempt to flee, but Porthos grabbed and wrestled him to the ground. He was pinned a moment later and looked up at Porthos with a sense of dread. Porthos looked far too pleased with himself for this to end well. Aramis yelled something to Porthos.  _Damn their knowledge of foreign languages!_  Then d'Artagnan realized he had heard that phrase before, right before he'd been hit over the head with a pillow.

"Porthos…"d'Artagnan whispered and began squirming again when Porthos' eyes took on a devilish light. "It was just a boot, Porthos." d'Artagnan heard Aramis snickering from a safe distance away. "Aramis, you stay out of this!"

"This is for hitting me with the boot!" Porthos said as he rubbed his knuckles fiercely across d'Artagnan's scalp. "And this, this is for waking Aramis up in the monastery!"

"Wha-" was all d'Artagnan had time to say before he was savagely tickled by a thoroughly amused Porthos.


	7. Chapter 7

                “You know, Porthos, waking Aramis at the monastery was just as much your doing as it was mine,” d’Artagnan pointed out once they had mounted their horses for another long day in the saddle.

                “You’re the one who demanded satisfaction,” Porthos called over his shoulder from where he was riding beside Aramis.

                “You insulted me!” d’Artagnan shrieked.

                “Touchy,” Aramis said just loud enough for Porthos alone to hear.

                “You’re the one who had to ask a question.”

                “You’re the one who couldn’t wait for us all to go to the monastery together!”

                Porthos turned in his saddle to look at d’Artagnan, his expression screaming that he could not believe the stupidity issuing forth from the young man’s mouth.

                “You expected me to wait patiently while you went shopping?” Porthos turned to Aramis then and shook his head.

                “Gentlemen,” Athos began as though calling them gentlemen would, by some miracle, remind them all that they were grown men bickering like children. “If you’re quite finished pointing fingers,” he sighed and looked to the sky in exasperation before riding away to scout ahead.

                Silence settled over them as they rode on, moving closer to Paris and war with every step.

                “Aramis!” d’Artagnan exclaimed with sudden and almost overwhelming chipperness.

                “Yes, d’Artagnan,” Aramis acknowledged, and Porthos stifled a chuckle knowing that his best friend had somehow captured the Gascon’s attention and would likely be pestered for the foreseeable future.

                “You have yet to finish your story.”

                “Ah, yes.”

                “You could always make up a new story. Think of the fun we could have, and he’d never know,” Porthos whispered conspiratorially.

                “I doubt Athos would let us have such fun. You know he’d find out about it somehow,” Aramis muttered before responding to d’Artagnan. “But you see, you have yet to tell me why I’m telling you about this little misadventure.”

                “What? Aren’t you telling it because I asked you how you came to know English?”

                “Yes, but we were only speaking in English because you appeared to be in a less than pleasant mood and we were trying to come up with a way of rectifying that.”

                D’Artagnan was briefly stunned by that revelation and struggled to explain what had been bothering him lately. Seeing that whatever d’Artagnan was about to reveal was something the boy took seriously, Porthos and Aramis slowed their horses just enough for d’Artagnan to come even with them.

                “Well, it’s just that…we’re going to war…”

                “Nothing gets past you, whelp,” Porthos grinned.

                “We’re going to war, and I hardly know anything about the three of you. I mean, Porthos, you were a pirate. A **pirate**! I never knew until last night, and even then I only found out because I wanted to know about why you know English. You three are my brothers, and yet we’re strangers. If one of you should fall in battle, I want to be able to tell my children about your great deeds and keep the memory of you alive, but how can I sustain a memory I know nothing about.” D’Artagnan sighed heavily. “Does…does that make **any** sense?” When he looked to Porthos and Aramis for a response, he was met with expressions that had greatly sobered since he began elaborating.

                “Yeah.” Porthos’ voice was so soft it was nearly lost amidst the noise of their horses.

                “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Aramis’ face conveyed something between sorrow and regret.

                “Before you left, there was no war, and you didn’t give us much warning,” d’Artagnan mused. “And then when we got to the monastery, I didn’t want to be overwhelming.” Porthos huffed in amusement. “Well, more overwhelming than normal,” d’Artagnan amended in the same moment Athos returned from scouting ahead.

                “What’s more overwhelming than normal?” One of Athos’ eyebrows rose as he scanned the faces of his brothers in search of an answer.

                “I am. I was just telling Porthos and Aramis that I wish I knew the three of you better if we’re to go off and risk our lives in this war.”

                “You do realize that we risk our lives every day…” Athos stated, not entirely sure why it had taken d’Artagnan so long to be troubled by such a thing.

                “Yes, but until Aramis left, I was learning about all of you, even if it was taking forever.”

                “Is there something in particular you wish to know?” Athos asked with great caution. He had the most wretched feeling that this was not going to be pleasant for one or all of them.

                “Well, Athos, do you remember in December when you had me take that letter of condolences to Tauzin’s next of kin?” Athos gave a nod. “It made me think about _my_ family which made me think of _your_ families.”

                Athos fought the urge to groan aloud. _It is now **impossible** for this to end well_. He looked to Porthos and noted the slight frown marring his face. Then his gaze fell on Aramis; the marksman’s posture had become uncharacteristically rigid.

                “Athos, I know some about your family, and Porthos, you've told me about your mother. But I realized that, Aramis, I know nothing about your family.”

                Athos watched Aramis’ face pale and waited for the tell-tale signs that his brother was about to run. His brother’s fingers were nearly twitching as they held the reins, his feet readjusting in the stirrups. Athos began praying for something to distract d’Artagnan, desperately hoping that he was not about to ask what Athos was nearly certain he was.

                “What about your par-“. Aramis decided right then that he was not going to stick around for a fun game of question and answer with d’Artagnan.

                “Athos, shouldn’t someone being scouting the road ahead?” Aramis blurted out before d’Artagnan could even finish his question.

                “Yes.” Athos responded instantly; he understood that Aramis wasn’t really concerned with whether or not there should be a scout on the road ahead. Aramis was asking for permission to escape, and Athos was more than willing to give it to him.

                Aramis was riding ahead the moment Athos had answered, and d’Artagnan was looking between each of the Musketeers with confusion and a growing sense of dread.

                “What did I do?”

                “Family’s not his best subject,” Porthos answered as he watched Aramis disappear ahead.

                “So I can avoid doing this again in the future, what should I **not** ask Aramis?” d’Artagnan began to wonder why he hadn’t simply kept his mouth shut. All he had needed to do was make up a reason for being in a strange mood the previous night and then convince Aramis to continue his story. Sometimes he felt his honesty did more harm than good.

                “Perhaps, it is best if you refrain from asking Aramis about his past. Let him tell you what he wants when he’s ready to do so,” Athos sighed.

                “Will he ever tell me anything?” Athos was caught off guard by the crestfallen tone in d’Artagnan’s voice.

                “In time.” Athos smiled reassuringly at the young man.

                “But do we have enough time?” d’Artagnan wondered.

                “Whelp, if you keep thinking like that, you’ll be crazy in a week and dead in a month. The length of your life, my life, Athos’ life, none of it’s certain, but that doesn’t mean we keep looking over our shoulders waiting for Death to show up.”

                For the first time in minutes, there was silence among them, and d’Artagnan considered for a long moment what Porthos had just said.

                “You’re right,” he conceded. “Should I apologize to him?”

                “If you wish. You must do what you feel is right,” Athos advised. D’Artagnan nodded his acquiescence. When it became clear to Porthos that d’Artagnan would likely lose himself in his thoughts until things with Aramis could be rectified, he decided to shake the lad from his declining mood.

                “Would you like to know how I became a pirate?” Porthos offered his tale as a compromise for d’Artagnan being denied his earlier investigation into their lives.

                Of course the youngest member of the company nodded wildly, and Athos wondered at how d’Artagnan could do so without injuring his neck. Porthos was just about to dive into his past when he noted the movement of his horse’s ears. Previously the ears had been relaxed, but quite suddenly they had stiffened and were directed toward the road ahead.

                “Something’s not right,” Porthos whispered even as Athos reached the same conclusion. The tension in the air built as they began to wonder why Aramis had not also realized there was danger nearby, or, if he had, why he had not returned to them.

                “Where is he?” d’Artagnan murmured.

                The calm of the pleasant mid-morning was shattered in an instant, the sound of a firearm discharging nearby destroying any hope they may have had for another laid back day in the saddle. They immediately urged their horses to greater speed, and when another shot followed less than a second after the first, they pushed mounts harder still without hesitation.

                “Damn,” Porthos swore and bent low over his horse’s neck. He had no doubt that whatever was going on ahead of them, Aramis was involved.


	8. Chapter 8

                When he rode ahead, it wasn’t because he was mad at d’Artagnan or that he didn’t want him to know to know about his family. But after dreaming of his mother’s death, he was in no way prepared to subject himself to all of d’Artagnan’s inquiries concerning his family. Surely Porthos and Athos would understand why Aramis wanted to distance himself from the conversation; perhaps they could somehow help d’Artagnan understand as well.

                Aramis physically shook himself to be rid of such thoughts. _Dwelling on the matter will do little for me now_. He chuckled when Gelos tossed his head in response to Aramis’ action. Gelos could read Aramis’ emotions like a book, just as Aramis could read Gelos. When one was happy, so was the other. It was no surprise then that Gelos had picked up on the tension running through Aramis, and he became tense as a result. Aramis was glad that they were both working to ease that tension and return to a state of relaxation. After several deep breaths, Aramis felt the last of the stress melt away.

                He rode on for several minutes, his mind drifting from one inconsequential matter to the next until finally his mind came back to what d’Artagnan had said.

                _“I want to be able to tell my children about your great deeds and keep the memory of you alive.”_

                Being soldiers, they would have little to leave their children, likely nothing more than a legacy of heroic deeds. How could he deny d’Artagnan the opportunity to pass on their legacies? Aramis himself desperately desired to take his son into his arms and recount to him the many adventures he and his brothers had lived through. He found then that he understood d’Artagnan. He was painfully familiar with what the younger man was feeling, for he had felt the same things for the Dauphin.

                “What do you think, Gelos? Should I go back and apologize?” Gelos nodded several times, and Aramis was about to retrace their steps when a group of men rode around the next bend in the road. “Duty first, my friend,” he stated for no reason other than that it was comforting to speak with his horse. Gelos tossed his head once more in a way that Aramis took to mean, _Well, of course!_.

                As the distance between the small party and Aramis slowly closed, he could feel unease ripple through Gelos’ body; he placed a hand on the horse’s neck as if to say he felt the same. His unease began escalating toward anticipation, adrenaline beginning to flood his veins. The way the men held themselves conveyed…it wasn’t quite authority, but something close. Confidence. These men were oozing confidence, so much so that Aramis felt it even across the distance that yet separated them.

                His sharp eyes began singling out details; they were all armed, not heavily but certainly enough to pose a threat to his brothers. They were riding in a loose formation which, to the untrained eye, would not appear to be organized at all, but to Aramis, it was obvious. Passing his attention over all six of the men, his focus settled on one man who appeared to be the leader. Aramis thought his posture was authoritarian, the way he held himself higher than his men and his entire being demanded respect and obedience. _If this becomes a fight, he’s the one to watch out for_.

                Aramis knew the moment they saw him. Their formation had previously kept to one side of the road, but upon noticing him, they began fanning out across the path. He sighed yet revealed nothing of his apprehension to the men advancing toward him. Movement caught his eye, and he noted with irritation that four of the men were prepared to draw their firearms. He was less irritated by what he saw as a foolish move on their part than he was by the notion of risking injury after leaving d’Artagnan the way he had. _If this gets me wounded, that boy is going to mother hen me into fratricide._

                When they had finally come close enough that interaction was unavoidable, Aramis was grateful for his many years of being a Musketeer. It would have been easy to bolt the moment he recognized the threat the men were clearly making, but to turn and run would have led them right to his brothers, and there was always the possibility that keeping his brothers hidden was the more beneficial option. Leading the men away was usually only the better choice if they were delivering something or escorting someone, and as far as Aramis knew, they were doing neither. Facing the challenge head on meant he could gather information while his brothers made their way to where he was, and it was what he chose to do in that moment.

                _Act casual. Just act casual_ , Aramis told himself, and Gelos threw his head in amusement. Ignoring his horse, Aramis flashed what he had been told was his most charming smile.

                As the six men came even with him, they turned their mounts, riding beside and behind him.

                “Gentlemen,” Aramis greeted with a slight tip of his hat.

                “Amigo.” The man Aramis had pinned as the leader practically spat the word despite the smile he was wearing.

                Aramis’ stomach rolled as understanding dawned on him. Aramis appeared to be a lone Spaniard riding through the French countryside while Spain and France were at war. He practically had a target painted on him.

                “Is there something I can help you with?” Aramis prayed it wasn’t obvious that he was stalling. Already he had slowed his horse so Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan would eventually overtake him, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep his unwanted company from getting violent.

                “You see, my brother, he’s the one on your right,” the leader said from Aramis’ left side, “thinks you may be a Spanish spy, but I told him he was judging you too quickly. After all, even a Spanish spy wouldn’t be so foolish as to go riding through France without companions.”

                “You think I am a spy?” Aramis laughed. “What gave you that impression?” He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but if people actually thought he was a Spanish spy, he would need to take measures against repeating his mistake in the future.

                “Well, señor, what innocent traveler goes about so heavily armed?” As the leader’s brother spoke, the man in charge pulled Aramis’ pistol from Aramis’ belt.

                “Who said I am an innocent traveler?” Aramis pulled his right arm imperceptibly closer to his body bringing his only remaining firearm closer as well. He’d been divested of his pistol; he certainly wasn’t going to let his arquebus go without a fight.

                “You speak in riddles.” The man’s brother sounded a little too agitated for Aramis’ liking.

                “My brother hates riddles,” the leader stated, all pretense of congeniality gone, and the other four men laughed. _What a terribly humorless sound_ , Aramis thought.

                “Gentlemen, I am not a Spanish spy.”

                “A pity. The King’s offering payment for every Spanish spy brought to justice, dead or alives.”

                _And there we have it. I look Spanish, and I’m well-armed. If only I had my spaulder- no, that might would be the antithesis of helpful. They would likely see me as a greater threat and an even greater prize, a spy disguised as a Musketeer._

                Aramis spared a glance at the road behind and tried to hide the despair he felt at finding it devoid of his brothers. Just as he brought his head back around to face forward once more, the lead man’s patience snapped.

                Aramis turned directly into the fist speeding toward his face. His vision swam, but he was not so stunned that he could not act. Knowing there was little hope of surviving the fight on his own, he brought his arquebus up, even as his brain fought to clear his vision, and he fired straight at the sky.

                Any pleasure he may have felt in knowing that he had effectively summoned at least Porthos, if not Athos and d’Artagnan as well, was instantly eclipsed by searing pain when another firearm was discharged and fiery pain tore across his right side. His proximity to the weapon at the time it was fired ensured that the momentum of the ball was more than enough to unseat him. Aramis was thrilled that, by some miracle, he had not been trampled after falling from his saddle.

                He struggled to get to his feet. _I will not lay down and die_ , he thought through the haze in his mind. _Especially not when my friends are so close by._

                He did not have time to draw any of his weapons as a sword quickly descended toward his left shoulder. Without thinking, he brought his arm up to block the strike and hissed as the blade sliced through his coat, shirt and the skin of his forearm.

                He staggered back under the force of the blow, and a sudden kick from behind sent him careening to his knees. Before he could recover, punches and kicks connected with his body from all sides. His mind, still reeling from the initial punch and damage to his side, failed to keep up with the assault, recognizing only mounting pain and the darkness slowly replacing his vision.

                When the beating stopped, it was sudden and all at once. He heard raised voices, voices that were familiar and yet just beyond recognizable in their fury. One voice rose in volume and ferocity above the rest, and he flinched at the sound of it.

                “Aramis?” A different voice, one he hadn’t heard until then. He wondered if perhaps he should be concerned that this was the first time he’d heard his friend speak since his brothers, for who else could be shouting so loud but Athos and d’Artagnan, had come to his rescue. If Porthos wasn’t yelling, it was because his anger had progressed to silent rage. “Come on, ‘Mis. Show me those mischievous brown eyes of yours.”

                _Huh. I don’t remember closing my eyes._

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                As Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan sped around a bend in the road, dirt flying from the force of horse hooves striking the dirt, the youngest and the eldest drew their pistols and fired. All they could see were approximately a half-dozen men mercilessly beating a man lying on the ground; the man, they were certain, was Aramis. Two of the men dropped dead as a result of Athos and d’Artagnan’s shots. Porthos’ rage had been ignited. He would not use a weapon against the men attacking his brother; he would use his fists.

                The men, alerted to the Musketeers’ approach by the sudden and unexpected death of two comrades, turned their attention on the men fast approaching.

                Porthos was off his horse before it had even stopped moving. He used the momentum of his dismount to plow into one of the men, knocking him to the ground. Porthos did not wait around for any of the other men to challenge him. His focus was entirely on the dirty and trembling form of Aramis.

                While Athos and d’Artagnan demanded answers from those men left alive and conscious, Porthos moved around Aramis until they were facing each other, and seeing the damage done to his closest friend was enough to make him weep in his fury. Aramis lay on his left side, his body slightly curled in a defensive position. He held his left arm across his body in protection of his right side, and Porthos swallowed hard when he saw the blood soaking the fabric there. Aramis’ right arm covered his head, no doubt to limit the number and severity of head injuries.

                Porthos looked up and his eyes locked with d’Artagnan’s; he allowed the Gascon to glimpse his rage laced with horror when he heard one of the men defend their actions because they thought Aramis was a Spanish spy.

                “He’s not a spy!” Athos chest was heaving, and he made no attempt to contain his disgust with the three men who had survived. “You’ve just attacked on of the King’s BEST and MOST LOYAL MUSKETEERS!”

                Porthos and d’Artagnan watched Aramis flinch when Athos’ impassioned words escalated to bellowing.

                “Easy, Athos,” d’Artagnan cautioned, and Athos followed d’Artagnan’s line of sight to Aramis and Porthos.

                Athos continued dealing with the assailants, but Porthos tuned him out and gave Aramis his full attention.

                “Aramis?” Porthos was hesitant to touch Aramis, unsure of how he would react after enduring such a beating and unwilling to be the cause of any further injury. “Come on, ‘Mis. Show me those mischievous brown eyes of yours.” He held his breath as he waited for a response, any response, from Aramis. Finally, Aramis’ arm slowly fell away from his face to reveal half-open eyes.

                “P’th’s?” the wounded man whispered.

                “Yeah, ‘Mis.” Porthos surveyed the area, his eyes seeking out the location of Gelos. “d’Artagnan!” The young man looked over immediately. “Fetch Gelos.” D’Artagnan nodded his understanding and dashed off to complete his task. Satisfied, Porthos returned his focus to Aramis.

                “Porthos.” It was a sigh that time, not a question, but a confident statement that his brother was, in fact, beside him. They had heard the shot, and they had come for him.

                “I’m right here,” Porthos confirmed and ran a hand through Aramis’ dusty hair, waiting for d’Artagnan to return with Aramis’ medical supplies. “I’m right here,” he said again for himself as much as Aramis. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	9. Chapter 9

                d’Artagnan wasted no time in guiding Gelos to where Porthos remained knelt beside Aramis. He’d briefly considered simply removing the bandages and other items Porthos would need, but he then realized that it would likely benefit Aramis to know that his horse was well and nearby. He chuckled when Gelos caught sight of Aramis and trotted over to his friend and, upon reaching Aramis, Gelos nudged his master’s head with his muzzle. d’Artagnan, having finished the short walk back to Porthos, was pleased to hear their injured brother murmuring to his horse.

                “Do you need me?” d’Artagnan asked and followed Porthos to where Gelos remained standing by Aramis.

                Porthos glanced down at their brother before continuing his raid of Aramis’ saddlebags.

                “I will in a moment. Help Athos first, He looks ready to kill ‘em.”

                “I’ve half a mind to let him,” d’Artagnan stated and went to provide Athos with whatever aid he could while Porthos returned to tending Aramis.

                “Aramis,” he prompted, seeing his friend’s eyelids beginning to close.

                “Mmm,” Aramis groaned in response.

                “No sleeping just yet. Can you move at all?” He’d seen Aramis do little beyond moving his right arm enough to uncover his face.

                “Do I have to?” was the mumbled reply. Porthos shook his head with barely concealed amusement.

                “And you say _I’m_ a terrible patient.”

                “You’ve a tendency to ruin my needlework.”

                “I’ve only ruined it…five times.”

                “ _Six_ times, Porthos, and neither number is ideal.”

                “You’re not much better. I practically have to sit on you to get you to recover from an injury. Besides, three of those times those stitches tore while I was saving your scrawny-“

                “Athos.” Aramis flashed a tired smile as the eldest in their group approached.

                “Aramis, Porthos.” Athos joined Porthos at Aramis’ side for the first time since their day took a turn for the worse. A quick glance around the road informed Porthos that d’Artagnan had taken charge of the fiends so Athos could check on Aramis.

                Athos knelt down and took stock of Aramis’ injuries, or rather, the ones he could see. He had no doubt his half-Spanish brother would develop a number of ugly bruises from the ordeal. His eyes came to rest on the blood coating Aramis’ side and the hand still shielding the injury. He reached for Aramis’ arm and, finding no resistance or objection in the medic’s eyes, slowly pulled the limb away from the wound. Peeling Aramis’ coat open and shirt up, Athos inhaled sharply when the damage was revealed.

                Through the blood yet oozing sluggishly from the wound, Athos and Porthos could see that the ball had not passed through Aramis side but had grazed him leaving a four inch gash just below Aramis’ ribs. Athos pulled his scarf from around his neck and lightly wiped away some of the blood concealing the torn flesh, eliciting a shuddering whimper from Aramis.

                Athos sighed, and Porthos tried unsuccessfully to quell his returning rage. It wasn’t as though Aramis had never been wounded before, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been shot, but knowing that a small band of trigger-happy imbeciles had senselessly laid Aramis low was pushing the limits of Porthos’ self-control.

                “I’m gonna kill ‘em,” Porthos fumed.

                “See to this as quickly as you can,” Athos nodded toward Aramis and stood. “There’s an inn about a lieue and a half down the road. I’ll look for you there. I’m taking this lot to Paris before I change my mind and let you dispose of them. I should be back not long after dark,” he finished and moved to help d’Artagnan get the men mounted on their horses, hands bound to the pommel of their saddles. When Athos was satisfied that the men would were sufficiently secured, he swung himself into his own saddle, dipped his head in farewell, and rode away with his prisoners in tow.

                Porthos watched Athos leave and knew by the way his friend had swallowed hard several times that Athos was struggling with his emotions as much as Porthos was. The day before yesterday Aramis had been safely tucked away in a monastery. Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan had sought him out in the hope of fighting Spain together, not his fellow Frenchmen.

                When d’Artagnan rejoined him beside Aramis, Porthos pushed his musings to the side; there would be time enough for them later. The youngest winced in empathy when he saw the graze on his friend’s side, his own side aching a little at the memory of when they’d tricked Milady before getting the Cardinal to confess to his role in the attack on the Queen.

                Porthos poured a measure of alcohol a clean cloth and steeled himself so he could clean Aramis’ side. Looking up, he locked eyes with d’Artagnan.

                “You’ll probably need to hold him still.” He winced at the waver in his voice, but d’Artagnan gave no indication that he had heard it. Instead the Gascon positioned himself at Aramis’ back, and gently but firmly braced the man against himself. Receiving a nod from d’Artagnan, Porthos looked to Aramis, who, after blinking sluggishly several times, affirmed his readiness.

                He took a deep breath and set about tending to the wound.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Aramis was vaguely aware of what was going around him. He had used his earlier banter with Porthos as a point of focus, something to keep himself awake, but once Athos joined them, he felt his hold on consciousness slipping. He tried to remember the last time he had been in so much physical pain. All his mind could conjure up was the recollection of being thrown through a window, but that hadn’t hurt quite as much as the burning in his side, the ache consuming his body.

                He tried to forget the constant throbbing; there was something he’d wanted to say. In a brief moment of clarity he recalled that, whatever it was he wanted to say, he wanted to talk to d’Artagnan. There was something the young man needed to hear… He fought to focus his vision. Maybe seeing d’Artagnan would help him remember.

                When he got his eyes to cooperate with his mind, he realized he was looking at Porthos. Porthos’ face was lined with concern, and he seemed to waiting for some kind of response from Aramis. Permission, some part of his brain supplied; Porthos wanted permission for something. Without giving much thought to the matter, Aramis nodded, a movement which took far more energy than he’d anticipated. He was confident Porthos could handle whatever seemed to be so worrying. All Aramis wanted to do was sleep, so when fire erupted across his side, he surrendered. Oblivion had to be better than such agony.


	10. Chapter 10

                When Aramis became aware of his surroundings again, he was displeased to find that the day’s misadventure was not another one of his nightmares but was, in fact, painful reality. His mind played back the events that led to his current physical state, flashes of memory all jumbled up making only a small amount of sense to his yet muddled brain. He remembered breakfast and d’Artagnan’s foolish decision to pelt Porthos with a boot, remembered the feeling of desperation as he tried to recall something just before losing consciousness, vividly remembered being outnumbered six to one, remembered d’Artagnan asking him a question he had almost no desire to answer… That was it! That was what he needed to talk to d’Artagnan about!

                He jerked his head up to locate the young man and instantly regretted the movement as dizziness overtook him.

                “Easy, Aramis,” Porthos cautioned, and Aramis realized suddenly that he was seated in front of Porthos on a horse. That revelation combined with his dancing vision left him feeling utterly nauseous. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto Porthos’ shoulder, having spent his energy on lifting his head with such speed. Once the nausea passed and the lightheadedness lessened, he slowly opened his right eye and was met with the sight of Porthos studying him.

                “d’Artagnan?” Aramis managed to whisper. He was tremendously relieved when Porthos understood Aramis was asking for d’Artagnan, not confusing Porthos with d’Artagnan as any attempt to explain himself would likely deplete his energy reserves before he ever had the chance to say what he wanted.

                Porthos caught d’Artagnan’s attention and nodded toward Aramis. D’Artagnan steered his mount closer to Porthos’ feeling equal parts pleased that Aramis was awake and unsure of why Aramis wanted him.

                “Aramis?”

                “I’s not your fault.”

                D’Artagnan said nothing in response. What _could_ he say? Once again Aramis knew exactly what he was thinking, and although he wanted to protest, to take as much of the blame as he could, he found himself incapable. He was fully aware of how Aramis would respond. Countless times he had heard the argument, he’d even made it himself on several occasions, but that made it no easier to accept. Aramis would take responsibility for riding away and claim that he could have, _should have_ , reacted differently. D’Artagnan could find no fault in such an argument, but that didn’t keep the guilt from creeping in.

                Porthos was grateful for Aramis’ words. Since rescuing Aramis, he’d been watching d’Artagnan struggle with what had befallen their brother. He would’ve said the same as Aramis and much sooner, but Porthos knew d’Artagnan wouldn’t accept absolution from anyone except the man he believed he’d brought harm to. While Porthos understood that it would take time for d’Artagnan to fully pardon himself, he saw the young man’s expression relax upon hearing Aramis’ declaration and took it as a sign that Aramis had said all that was required.

                Knowing from experience that Aramis would push the issue until he felt confident he’d been heard and his words taken to heart, Porthos verbally confirmed d’Artagnan’s comprehension. “He knows it,” he said and felt his brother relax in his arms.

                A minute later Aramis began shivering despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

                “d’Artagnan, pass me a blanket,” Porthos requested, and d’Artagnan quickly supplied the item and held Porthos’ reins so the larger man could use both hands to wrap the cover around Aramis and himself. He smiled at Porthos’ wisdom to encompass himself in the blanket along with Aramis; Porthos was always warmer than everyone else, so by placing himself inside the covering, he was providing their brother with much needed heat faster than the blanket alone could have. Porthos nodded his thanks when he reclaimed control of his horse.

                “The town can’t be much further,” d’Artagnan commented.

                “Should be just beyond the next bend in the road. Ride ahead and get a room. We’ll be there as quick as we can.”

                “Will… If I go ahead, will you two be…?”

                “We’ll be fine, d’Artagnan.”

                The Gascon hesitated for several seconds more before urging his horse ahead; he had to admit, he was glad to feel useful again despite his unease at parting from his brothers. He’d decided long ago that waiting was the worst part of dealing with injuries; there was something indescribably depressing about the helplessness that accompanied the whole affair. It felt good to be rid of it, if only for a little while.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Once Athos reached Paris, he turned his charges in to the proper authorities as quickly as he could manage. His mood was growing increasingly foul with every minute he spent away from his brothers. He did not know the extent of Aramis’ injuries, and that alone was enough to drive him to madness. He knew that d’Artagnan would be struggling with guilt, and he knew Porthos would be on edge until he’d done all he could for Aramis and been assured that his brother would be fine. Athos’ small band of brothers took on a sort of manic tension when Aramis was wounded. When anyone else was injured, they trusted Aramis to tend to things while the others offered whatever help they could. But when Aramis was the one in need of medical attention, the entire dynamic of the group had to adjust and rearrange itself. Each of them had a part to play within their brotherhood, yet he was a number of leagues away dealing with the details, something he would never neglect but never accept as part of his role. He could be the leader, and God knows he did it well, but when his brothers needed him as they surely did then, he hated being the one to tie up loose ends.

                He sped into the garrison, eager to procure a cart or carriage for Aramis and return to them at the inn. However, upon entering his office to grab a few items, he found Tréville and Constance waiting for him there.

                “What’s happened?” The former captain demanded and rose from the chair where he’d been lounging as he took in Athos’ appearance and expression. His clothes were dusty and disheveled from his time on the road. His scarf was missing. His posture screamed anxiety, frustration, and exhaustion. Tréville crossed the distance to Athos before repeating himself. “Athos, tell me what’s happened.”

                “While riding ahead this morning, Aramis was attacked by half a dozen men claiming he’s a Spanish spy. When Porthos, d’Artagnan, and I joined the fray, three of the assailants were killed. I left Porthos and d’Artagnan with Aramis while I escorted the survivors here before one or all of us decided to take justice into our own hands.”

                “Where are they now?” Constance interjected, her instinctive protectiveness of the four brothers making her impatient.

                “An inn about fifteen lieue north of here. I only stopped here to grab a few things and obtain a cart for Aramis. I would feel much better if he were here in the relative safety of the garrison.”

                “I’m going back with you,” Constance stated. She left no room for argument and left the office to prepare for the ride.

                “How bad is it?” Tréville asked softly.

                “I’m not certain.” Athos had abandoned his gloves on the desk, and Tréville watched his hands fidgeting. Knowing that Athos was not prone to that particular nervous habit, the Minister of War looked closer and noted the stains on Athos’ hands. Removing a kerchief from an inner pocket, Tréville crossed the room to the water pitcher he’d filled earlier and wet the cloth before returning to Athos. Gently taking one of his friend’s hands, he worked to remove the blood that had dried there.

                “Were we mistaken? Should we have left him in Douai?” Athos asked as Tréville proceeded to clean Athos’ other hand.

                “I think Aramis would have left for the war regardless of whether or not the three of you sought him out. Be glad you were there to protect him.” Tréville stepped back and examined Athos once more; his confidence was returning, and his determination to return to his brothers conquered what was left of his doubt. Satisfied with the change, Tréville moved to the door. “You’d best be going. I should inform the Queen that she’ll be missing one of her lady’s for several days,” he added with a half-smile.

                “Thank you, sir,” Athos breathed and retrieved his gloves from the desk before following Tréville out of the office and into the yard below.

                “Godspeed, Athos. Bring your brothers home.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                By the time Porthos brought his horse to a stop in front of the inn, d’Artagnan was pacing like a caged animal.

                “I’ve asked for boiling water, wine, extra blankets, everything I could think of.” D’Artagnan spoke quickly while Porthos worked to disentangle himself from the blanket.

                “Good. Can you take him?”

                d’Artagnan positioned himself to support Aramis as Porthos slowly lowered their still trembling brother from the saddle. When Porthos was sure d’Artagnan wasn’t going to drop Aramis, he slid out of the saddle. A stable boy appeared beside them and tapped Porthos’ arm to get his attention.

                “Monsieur? I’ll care for the horses and bring your things in?” He formed his statement as a question, unsure of Porthos’ intentions and unwilling to anger the heavily-armed man. Porthos looked at the boy then at his companions and made his decision.

                “Quick as you can, yeah?” The boy nodded vigorously and led the horses to the stable.

                Porthos turned to d’Artagnan and Aramis once more.

                “Lead the way, d’Art,” he said before gently scooping Aramis into his arms.

                “’m not a child,” Aramis mumbled into Porthos’ chest.

                “Course not. Children are much easier to carry,” Porthos smirked.

                Not a moment after they entered the room and Porthos laid Aramis down on the bed, the inn keeper’s wife hurried through the door with the requested boiling water, her daughter following behind with clean cloths and extra blankets. Seconds later the inn keeper himself walked in with brandy, and the stable boy nearly ran headlong into the small crowd forming in the room. d’Artagnan expressed their collective thanks to the inn keeper and his staff while the inn keeper began shooing his wife, daughter, and stable boy from the room.

                “If there’s anything more you need, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re always glad to be of service to the Musketeers,” the inn keeper informed the three men and, backing into the hall, closed the door.

                When they were finally alone, d’Artagnan and Porthos tore their gloves off and set about unpacking their medical supplies and seeing to Aramis, respectively. D’Artagnan laid Aramis’ kit out on the table, knowing that Aramis’ side would have to be cleaned again and stitched. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Porthos waiting for him.

                “Help me get his coat off?”

                They set about removing Aramis’ outer layer of clothing and mentally noted every hiss and groan as well as the cause of each pained reaction. It quickly became clear that Aramis’ left shoulder was a source of immense pain for their friend, and d’Artagnan had to assist in Porthos’ efforts to free Aramis’ left arm from the garment while causing the least amount of pain possible.

                “What happened to your shoulder?” d’Artagnan asked.

                “Fell of my horse,” Aramis whispered.

                “Remind me to buy you a new shirt when we get to Paris,” Porthos stated before slicing Aramis’ shirt open with his knife. He was growing more and more frustrated with the amount of time everything seemed to be taking. Aramis was shaking like a leaf in a storm and had lost a great deal of blood since being wounded earlier that day. As Porthos watched the rapid rise and fall of Aramis’ chest, he feared his friend’s body was giving into shock.

                After the initial slice in the fabric, Porthos simply tore the shirt away from Aramis’ body as delicately as he could.

                “d’Artagnan, make sure the needle is clean,” he ordered and set about removing the bloodied bandages they’d previously dressed Aramis’ side with.

                “You with me, ‘Mis?” Porthos asked even as he poured alcohol on the gash and worked to clean away the dried blood. Aramis responded with a strained grunt and blinked rapidly to clear his vision. “Your left arm’s bleedin’.”

                “Blocked a sword with it,” mumbled Aramis.

                “With your arm? Why didn’t you use your sword?”

                “No time.”

                “You can’t keep doin’ this to me, ‘Mis. My hair’s gonna start fallin’ out at this rate.”

                If Aramis wasn’t in a mind-numbing amount of pain, he would have had some witty retort for his best friend; as it was, he settled for an attempt at laughter. However, the movement renewed the agony in his chest, and he quickly abandoned the act.

                “Sorry,” Porthos murmured, and Aramis shook his head at the apology.

                “We apologize…too much,” he managed to say. Porthos smiled sadly at his words.

                “Maybe.”

                D’Artagnan stood beside Porthos with the needle cleaned and threaded in one hand and a mass of cloth in the other.

                “Aramis, I need you to lay on your side,” Porthos told the wounded man not because he expected Aramis to roll over but because he wanted to prepare his friend for the inevitable discomfort he faced. Aramis gave the slightest of nods and did what he could to help Porthos move him, although it wasn’t much. By the time he was positioned on his right side so Porthos could properly stitch the wound, Aramis was barely hanging onto consciousness. He was glad when Porthos wasted no more time before pushing the needle into his flesh. The idea of receiving stitches was nearly as bad as the actual stitching in Aramis’ opinion.

                He needed a distraction.

                “d’Artagnan.”

                “Aramis?”

                “Earlier you…you asked about my family.”

                “You don’t have to-“

                “Oh, shush,” Aramis huffed. He smiled when he heard d’Artagnan’s mouth close. “My mother, she…she died…in a fire.” He felt d’Artagnan tense behind him and wondered if he’d misjudged his choice of distraction. He dismissed the thought after considering that the only other topic he’d thought to talk about was the story about England, a tale he lacked the energy to tell at that moment.

                “How old were you?” d’Artagnan’s voice was small, childlike. Aramis recalled that the young man beside him had also lost his mother.

                “Seven.”

                “Aramis, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have asked.”

                “It’s fine,” Aramis sighed and reached his right arm over his head to find d’Artagnan’s arm. “Dad died when I was seventeen,” he said as an afterthought. Silence fell over the room, Aramis moving ever closer to unconsciousness.

                “We’re all orphans,” he realized as he drifted off.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Nearly an hour after the sun had bid France goodnight, Athos and Constance entered the inn. They were greeted almost instantly by d’Artagnan who had apparently volunteered to wait for them in the main room.

                “Constance! Athos!” The Gascon yelled to be heard over the dinner crowd. d’Artagnan pulled his wife into a tight and lingering embrace, and Athos tried not to rush the reunion of his friends.

                “How is he?” Athos asked when they finally pulled apart. d’Artagnan’s expression immediately sobered.

                “He was practically in shock by the time we were able to stitch his side; he lost a lot of blood on the way.” Athos wasn’t surprised by that news. He’d seen the damage before riding to Paris; he would have been more surprised if Aramis _hadn’t_ lost a substantial amount of blood. “He’s got a cut on his left arm that Porthos had to stitch as well. His left shoulder is bruised and swollen; apparently it took most of the impact when he fell from Gelos during the fight. He’s developing an incredible black eye, can’t even open it. Other than that, there’s a lot of bruising. He’s going to be sore for some time.”

                “Can we see him?” Constance inquired while Athos worked to take in every bit of the information he’d just been given.

                “Of course,” d’Artagnan said and led them to the room. The Gascon stopped at the door, allowing Athos to enter first, something Athos was extremely grateful for. His worry had been growing ever since he’d left his brothers that morning, and Tréville’s words kept echoing in his mind. _Bring your brothers home._

                He slowly pushed the door open in an attempt to not disturb the room’s inhabitants with his entrance. He was met with the sight of Porthos lying protectively beside Aramis, both deeply asleep. Some of the tension left his body as he made a beeline for the chair next to the bed, and he sank into it, glad to be with his brothers once again.


	11. Chapter 11

                He was pulled from sleep by pain in his shoulder, and he groaned, wishing he could will away the throbbing sensation.

                “Aramis?”

                The corners of his mouth lazily curled upward.

                “Athos.” The name was drawn out and half mumbled, made so by a tongue still heavy from sleep. “Help me sit up?”

                “You should rest.”

                “I won’t be able to rest until I can take some of the pressure off of my shoulder.” He fixed Athos with the most convincing and determined medic’s stare he could manage with his left eye still mostly swollen shut.

                Athos studied Aramis knowing how adept his brother was at manipulating him with that look, although Aramis usually wasn’t the injured one during those instances. Athos observed the exhaustion his brother wasn’t even attempting to conceal, the pain in his eyes, the quickened quality of his breathing. There were dark circles around Aramis’ eyes, but Athos wasn’t sure if they were from little rest or bruising. His lower lip was split, and the skin of his left cheekbone had been broken by at least one of the blows he’d been unable to shield himself from. All in all, Athos believed he’d rarely seen Aramis look so childlike. He was looking at Athos with complete trust and total honesty. It made Athos realize that, for the first time since Aramis had slept with the Queen, there were no secrets being withheld between them; the air was clear.

                “Athos? Are you well? You’re not injured are you?” Aramis didn’t recall Athos being injured, but then he didn’t remember much of anything after being shot, and the way Athos’ eyes had become unfocused had Aramis concerned for his brother. He didn’t think his own wounds could be the cause of Athos’ distant stare because Porthos was sleeping beside him, and Porthos would only be sleeping if Aramis was on the mend. Athos, though…Athos had ridden off with the men who’d attacked him. Had something happened to his friend along the way?

                “I’m fine,” Athos smiled and stood to help Aramis sit up. “I lost myself in my thoughts, no cause for alarm.”

                “Good, because I’m in no condition to patch you up.” Aramis returned Athos’ smile.

                After several moments Aramis was sitting up in bed, his back supported by a number of pillows which he sank into while working to steady his breathing. Despite the relief he knew he would gain from being upright, the act of getting to that position had aggravated his arm and side, and his head throbbed in time with the beating of his heart.

                Athos sat on the edge of the bed, unwilling to put distance between them again. He looked to Porthos and was amused to find the Musketeer stirring and yawning widely like a cat.

                “What time is it?” Porthos inquired as he sat up and ran a hand across his face.

                “Not sure exactly. Two, maybe three hours until sunrise?” Athos had lost track of time while watching over his brothers. d’Artagnan and Constance had lingered for nearly an hour before requesting to be informed of any change in Aramis’ health and acquiring a room of their own for the night, but after that Athos had let his mind wander.

                The room was quiet for a time with the exception of the popping and cracking emanating from the fire place on the other side of the room. Aramis shivered, and Athos wondered at the cause of the movement while Porthos readjusted the blankets around their wounded brother.

                “Aramis, tell us what happened yesterday,” Athos said softly. Aramis dove into the tale without hesitation, which was a comfort to Porthos. In the past, stories Aramis dreaded telling, the ones he had to be coaxed into recounting, were the very ones he relived in his nightmares, and so Porthos took the ease with which Aramis spoke of the previous day’s events to be a good omen.

                Aramis went on relaying every detail he could recall and apologized when his recollection became fuzzy and jumbled.

                “Why did they think you’re Spanish?” Athos’ question was honest and one that Aramis had been trying to answer since he’d encountered the men.

                “I’m not sure. I was talking to Gelos; perhaps I was speaking Spanish. You know I slip between French and Spanish without realizing what I’m doing.”

                Athos nodded, and Porthos would have laughed if the typically comical yet slightly frustrating occurrence wasn’t a possible cause for Aramis’ present physical state. Athos, however, wanted a more definite answer and so kept thinking.

                “Could be they were just spoilin’ for a fight. They saw a man who could pass for Spanish riding alone and jumped at the chance to spill some blood,” Porthos suggested.

                “Do we have any cold water?”

                “What?” Athos asked, caught off guard by Aramis’ seemingly random question.

                “Cold water? Do we have any? It’ll help lessen the swelling of my shoulder.”

                Athos surveyed the room and realized he’d drank the rest of their water some time ago and had neglected to retrieve more.

                “I’ll fetch some,” Athos offered before reluctantly rising and departing.

                Aramis sighed and let his head sink back into his pillows. He felt Porthos moving beside him and cracked his right eye open to look at his friend.

                “You look terrible,” Porthos said flatly, and Aramis huffed at what he felt was likely an understatement. Porthos raised his hand to Aramis’ brow and frowned.

                “You’re hot.”

                “Why thank you, Porthos,” he joked, but Porthos simply shook his head.

                “I should check this,” Porthos stated and worked to remove the bandage on Aramis’ side.

                “I’m sorry I worried you.”

                “Did you do it on purpose?”

                “No.”

                “Then why are you apologizing?” Porthos stopped what he was doing to look Aramis in the eye. He watched as his brother struggled to find an answer. Sensing he’d let the silence go on long enough, Porthos spoke again.

                “Remember what you said to me yesterday?” He paused knowing that it was entirely possible that Aramis didn’t remember anything beyond the pain of his injuries. “You told me we apologize too much.”

                Aramis broke eye contact and took interest in something on the ceiling, but Porthos knew that Aramis understood the point he was making.

                “Were you wrong?” He added to drive his point home.

                Aramis shook his head and took a deep breath. He knew his brother was right, and he knew Porthos knew it as well. “Thank you, Porthos.”

                “For what?” Porthos said as he resumed checking the wound on Aramis’ side.

                “For…coming for me in Douai. For not abandoning me to my nightmares. For saving me on the road. For still being my friend after the hellish past two years we’ve had. For being the best friend and brother a man could ask for. Need I go on?”

                “Nah,” Porthos chuckled. “That’s what brothers are for, right?” He reminded Aramis as he set about redressing the gash.

                Aramis hummed his agreement before asking, “How’s it look?”

                “About as well as can be expected. Let me see your arm.” Porthos reached for Aramis’ left forearm which was resting across the man’s abdomen. Porthos could feel the heat of the wound even through the bandage.

                “Doubt you’ll say the same for that one,” Aramis commented, eyes closed once more as exhaustion began creeping in again.

                “You knew something was wrong?”

                Aramis hurried to answer when he heard the slight accusation in Porthos’ tone.

                “Not until you touched it. Thought it was just my shoulder.”

                Aramis felt Porthos tense beside him when the bandage fell away.

                “Damn.”

                “What?” Athos returned just in time to hear Porthos’ soft curse.

                “Infection’s set in.”

                Aramis swallowed thickly in response to the announcement. _That explains why the room seems to be growing hotter than a Spanish summer._

                He felt the bed shift beneath Porthos’ moving weight and listened as his footsteps receded down the hallway. Aramis was trying not to panic. Infection could kill, but that didn’t mean it would, he reminded himself.

                Athos placed his hand on Aramis’ forehead and then replaced his hand with a cool, damp cloth. Aramis peered blearily at Athos who was in the process of placing a similar cloth on his aching shoulder.

                “You’re not going to leave me are you?” Aramis whispered.

                “Leave you?” _Where did this come from?_ Athos thought as he waited for Aramis to answer.

                “For the war. You won’t leave me will you?” Athos was again struck by how injury could reduce Aramis to such childlikeness.

                “Never.” Wherever Aramis’ train of thought had come from, Athos would do his best to convince the man that their brotherhood would not be tossed aside so easily. As far as Athos was concerned their fraternity was eternal, and three having become four once more would not become three again any time soon if Athos could do anything about it.

                Aramis was comforted by the single word response. It was a promise, an oath, _their_ oath. Their bond as brothers.

                “Never,” he said back to Athos.

                “ _Ever_ ,” Athos stressed. “Rest, little brother. The war can wait, and if it doesn’t, then all the better for us,” Athos finished with a small smile.

                Aramis, reassured by Athos’ words, settled into his pillows and was content to let sleep claim him until one last thought demanded his immediate attention.

                “’thos,” he said, barely awake and not even bothering to open his eyes. “Don’t let him worry…’n get ‘im to eat somethin’.”

                “You have my word.”

                Athos smiled as he watched Aramis relax into much needed sleep. _Even when he can’t take care of himself he’s still taking care of the rest of us_ , Athos mused. He knew as Aramis did that Porthos probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day, the last meal they’d all had together, as a result of his worry for their half-Spanish brother. As Athos continued to consider that he realized that it had likely been as long since Aramis had eaten as well. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that being the oldest brother in their peculiar little family was seldom simple or undemanding.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                When Porthos returned, he brought with him hot water, Constance, and d’Artagnan, both looking distressed by the news of the infection festering in Aramis’ arm. Porthos and Constance worked together to clean the laceration while Athos continued his efforts to cool Aramis’ body and d’Artagnan did anything the others requested of him.

                The sun was just beginning to rise as Porthos and Constance sat back from their ministrations, having done all they could. Athos continued to bathe Aramis’ brow, and his body was beginning to ache from his efforts and the hours spent in an uncomfortable wooden chair. He watched Porthos’ leg begin rapidly bouncing up and down and recognized it as a sign of Porthos’ concern as well as his dislike for the waiting game they were forced to endure.

                Athos was opening his mouth to speak to Porthos when the man’s stomach growled loudly.

                “Constance, will you and d’Artagnan look after Aramis? Porthos and I are in desperate need of breakfast.”

                “Of course. I’ll send d’Artagnan if anything changes,” she replied and smiled when she looked to d’Artagnan who was sleeping near the fire.

                Athos dipped his head in thanks before stiffly removing himself from his chair. He stood at the doorway and waited for Porthos to join him. Porthos unenthusiastically moved to join Athos; he got as far as the opposite side of Aramis’ bed before detouring from his path to the door. Standing at the head of the bed, Porthos removed his pendant of St. Jude, leaned down, and placed it around Aramis’ neck where Queen Anne’s crucifix once lay. He let his forehead rest against Aramis’ for a moment, whispering something Athos could not make out from where he continued to wait by the door. When Porthos finally crossed the distance from the bedside to the hall, Athos expressed his thanks to Constance once more and walked with his brother to the inn’s main room.

                Breakfast time at the inn was nowhere near as bustling as dinner, so Athos and Porthos had their pick of the tables.

                “Sit,” Athos said when it looked as though Porthos was about to protest his need to eat. Athos caught the eye of the inn keeper’s wife and requested food before turning his attention on Porthos.

                “Athos-“

                “Porthos, I gave Aramis my word that I would not let you worry and that I would make sure you ate something. Now he knows as well as I that it is nigh on impossible to keep you from worrying once you’ve set your mind to it, so I’m seeing to his second request until a solution to the first presents itself.” Athos fixed Porthos with an unyielding stare, and when food was placed on the table between them, Porthos nibbled at it. However, the more he ate, the more he realized how famished he had been, and so he ate his entire portion and two more besides. When his hunger was sated, Porthos sat back in his chair and his fingers traced meaningless designs across the table. Athos, having finished his own meal sometime during Porthos’ second helping, observed the worry eating away at Porthos once more.

                “When did he stop wearing her crucifix?” Athos asked knowing he couldn’t take Porthos’ mind off of Aramis so choosing to fix Porthos’ thoughts on something other than their brother’s injuries. He didn’t know if Porthos knew the answer to his question but figured that if anyone knew, Porthos would.

                “He said it was when he left Paris. He thought he couldn’t let them go without letting it go too. He’s kept it wrapped in his spare sash since.” Porthos rubbed his neck, trying to erase the ache that’d made its home there. “He’s been wearing his mum’s again, but the chain broke yesterday morning. I haven’t had the heart to tell him.”

                “He’s hardly been awake for you to,” Athos interjected sensing that this would be yet another matter weighing on Porthos’ mind. “Has he asked about them?” he asked after studying Porthos for a moment longer.

                “No, I think he’s trying not to, as if keeping quiet makes it easier.”

                “I couldn’t bear it, having a child I couldn’t look after,” Athos admitted. “I was going to meet with my wife, you know. She waited for me, but I was late and she’d already gone, left for England. Every day since then I wonder what would have happened if I’d reached her in time. If my thoughts are so consumed by a woman alone, what must it be like for Aramis with a woman and a son? I don’t know how he does it, Porthos, how he stands under the weight of it.”

                “He’s got us. That’s how.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Constance replaced the cloth on Aramis’ forehead with a fresh one and sank back into d’Artagnan’s arms, his hands moving to caress the gentle swell of her belly.

                “He’s getting worse,” she sighed. “His fever just keeps rising.”

                “He’s survived worse than a fever before,” d’Artagnan reminded her.

                “But…what if, after surviving worse so many times, it takes nothing more than a fever to bring him down?” It was a lesson Constance had learned long ago: yesterday’s strength can be powerless to overcome today’s struggles.

                “For Porthos’ sake, I hope we never know that day.” d’Artagnan pressed a kiss to his wife’s shoulder and offered a silent prayer to Aramis’ God.

                She stood to exchange cloths again, and d’Artagnan moved to check Aramis’ arm. The flesh was still angry and red, swollen and weeping, but the poultice his brother and wife had applied seemed to be drawing the infection out.

                “I’m amazed it became infected as quickly as it did,” Constance stated, unknowingly saying much the same thing as Athos was at that very moment.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “Remember what the monk said? Aramis was barely eating or sleeping after he found out about the war. Two days with us may have put him in better spirits, but his body couldn’t have caught up yet. You know a weaker body’s more likely to become infected. I just wish he could’ve waited until we got back to Paris; seems like that would’ve been easier somehow.”

                “Easier, perhaps, but he’d still worry us half to death.”

                Athos and Porthos exchanged grins, both well aware, although not at all pleased, with their brother’s knack for dancing at death’s door while they lost their sanity from worry.

                They rose from the table and returned to the room with nothing left to do but sit and wait.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                His body felt as though it were at war with itself, feeling simultaneously hot and cold.

                Hot and Cold.

                Hot and cold like fire and snow.

                Fire.

                And Snow.

                Panic welled up in his chest as a collection of some his most haunting memories assaulted his mind. He fought for breath but couldn’t seem to take in enough air to push the growing tightness from his chest.

                There was unexpected pressure on his right shoulder, and something moved across his forehead. Aramis struggled to defend himself but found his left arm completely immobile and his right arm pinned beneath the unknown force.

                He heard voices calling to him.

                “Aramis,” It was a woman.

                Fire.

                Woman.

                _Mother_.

                The pleading voice morphed into his mother’s terror-filled cries as the fire consume the house. Aramis desperately tried to free himself from whatever it was that held him fast.

                _I can’t fail her again. I have to save her_.

                “Peace, brother.”

                _Brother_.

                Musketeers.

                A strangled cry escaped him as the events of the training exercise on the border of France and Savoy invaded his senses with all of the force of a mighty deluge. His body seemed to react to the memories, the cold giving way to the unyielding hot that seemed to be swallowing him whole.

                Something cold and wet was placed on his forehead, and he gasped at the suddenness of the contact and the slight relief it brought.

                He wanted to open his eyes, to see what was going on around him but couldn’t find the strength to do more than contemplate the simple act of lifting his eyelids.

                The moist-cold disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Aramis wanted nothing more than to chase it. He tried speaking, attempted vehemently protesting the loss of the small yet glorious relief brought on by the cold. He found his mouth drier than French soil during a drought, and his throat was in much the same condition. The lack of moisture created a torturous tickling sensation in his throat to which his body reacted instinctively, and a bout of harsh coughing shook his body and awoke each previously dulled ache and pain that every moment threatened to overwhelm his senses.

                After what, to Aramis, felt like an eternity, the coughing ceased, leaving his body raggedly panting for breath. He was certain he would have wept over the renewal of his agony had he any tears to cry.

                The cold-wet returned, this time pressing upon his lips. Cool water (sweet and blessedly _cold_ water!) slowly dripped into his mouth; he greedily accepted it. He yearned for more, desired nothing but to drink the oceans dry.

                _Maybe this is what it feels like to be a fish out of water._

_I like fish._

_Porthos likes fish._

                “I’m here, ‘Mis.” A large hand came to rest on the side of his face. Porthos.

                _How did he know?_

                The cold began spreading across his body. The fire raging beneath his skin melted the icy sensations much too quickly for Aramis’ liking, the chill present for several seconds at best before vanishing.

                He didn’t like the cold, despising it for the memories it pulled to forefront of his mind.

                He despised the cold, but he abhorred fire.

                The freezing liquid causing him to shiver and his hair to stand on end was far better than the inferno consuming him.

                “Cold.” _Did I say that out loud?_

                “I know.” A hand moved through his hair.

                Aramis willed his body to relax.

                ‘ _I know.’_

It was true. He _did_ know.

                They were fighting one demon with another.

                Hot with Cold.

                Fire with Snow.

                Agony with Numbness.


	12. Chapter 12

                It was afternoon on the third day of Aramis’ fever. The first had been relatively uneventful, the second tense as his temperature continued to climb and he was plagued with fever dreams. As the third day progressed, Athos grew restless waiting for Aramis’ fever to break and watching d’Artagnan war with his guilt. He was impressed by how well Porthos was holding up and proud beyond measure of the way Constance worked to keep them all sane. If Aramis was still in the clutches of his demons, his struggle was no longer apparent, and the ensuing silence was deafening.

                He caught Constance’s eye and saw reflected there his desire to distract and be distracted. He looked to Porthos and was loathe to pull the man’s attention from his rumination, but Aramis and Porthos were the best and most subtle at keeping all of their minds on anything but whatever unpleasant situation they found themselves facing.

                Porthos sat next to Aramis on the bed, legs folded and one knee drawn up to his chest. He’d pushed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and was tempted to abandon the garment altogether, the heat pouring off Aramis enough to make him uncomfortably warm.

                “Come on, ‘Mis,” he whispered as he continued trying to cool his stubborn brother down. Aramis had managed to wrestle free from the grip of his fevered dreams, but Porthos found the subsequent stillness more unnerving than the previous mumbling and twitching. He smiled in remembrance of something Aramis had muttered, “Porthos likes fish”. He was curious about what feverish thought pattern had brought Aramis to Porthos’ love of fish but knew he’d likely never find out.

                He glanced around the room just to see how the others were fairing and saw the nonverbal conversation occurring between Athos and Constance. Porthos smiled at the sight; Constance had become a member of their quirky family, that much was certain. As Porthos was about to attempt determining whether Constance was one of the older siblings like he and Athos, younger like Aramis and d’Artagnan, or _perhaps she’s the middle child_ , his gaze found their youngest member looking out the window with unseeing eyes. The Gascon’s mood matched the weather outside, the sun having been shrouded by storm clouds some time during the morning leaving the afternoon grey and dreary. A peal of thunder rolled across the countryside as Porthos concluded that something needed to be done to entertain his friends.

                “d’Artagnan,” Porthos said and waited to continue until his brother indicated he was listening. Was that a sigh of relief he heard form Athos? “As I recall, I was about to tell you how I became a pirate.”

                The expression on d’Artagnan’s face told Porthos that it was obvious to him what was being attempted although he would not object to the distraction. Porthos, glad that d’Artagnan had decided to listen regardless of Porthos’ motives, smiled fondly before beginning.

                “It was actually the first time I met Aramis though I don’t know we’ve ever spoken about it since. He must’ve been…17 at the time and a cheeky little devil.”

                A short burst of laughter issued forth unbidden by Athos, and d’Artagnan’s face broke into a wide grin.

                “Surely not our Aramis?” Constance said, voice dripping with sarcastic disbelief.

                Porthos rolled his eyes at the interruption, a smile of his own meeting those of his companions, and returned to his tale.

                “I’d left the Court a couple summers earlier and was headed for the nearest port when-“

                “Why for port?” d’Artagnan interjected and was answered with a playful smack from Constance.

                “It’s no wonder they don’t tell you their stories; you don’t shut up long enough to hear them.”

                Porthos and Athos shared amused grins, and Aramis groaned at precisely the right moment, as though he were agreeing with the reprimand, which sent them all into varying degrees of laughter. Porthos looked down at Aramis and noted the faintest gathering of perspiration upon his brow, the first indication he had that his brother’s fever was breaking, and if that was the case, then perhaps Aramis _was_ responding to Constance.

                “I was headed to a port ‘cause I’d decided there’s more to the world than France, and joinin’ the crew of a ship sounded like as good a way as any to find out what I’d been missin’.”

                d’Artagnan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Satisfied that d’Artagnan would not be interrupting any time soon, Porthos returned to his storytelling.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Porthos trudged along the road to Saint-Malo on weary limbs. With every step his desire to take to the sea grew, the idea of time spent sailing refreshing after wandering the length and breadth of France for several years. The smell of the ocean had been subtle at first, but the closer he drew to the coast, the more it invaded his senses, and every adventurous fiber of his being came to life in response.

                Despite his desire to reach the port as soon as possible, he stopped to rest along the Rance River. It didn’t take long for him to drift off into sleep, his tired body unable to resist the lulling effects of the cool ocean breeze and the perfectly warm rays of the sun.

                Porthos woke quite suddenly after a gun was fired uncomfortably close to him. Every survival instinct in his mind and body roared to life, and he threw himself in the direction of the blast. He wasn’t sure why the firearm discharged, but he was intent on informing the gunman just how displeased he was with 1) being woken in such a way and 2) the ball hitting its mark so close to him that the dirt displaced by the impact showered Porthos’ leg.

                He was on the man in an instant. Well, he wasn’t quite a man, but definitely not a child either. While the youth seemed to have expected some reaction from Porthos, he was obviously unprepared for the human hurricane that was Porthos du Vallon. He yelped as Porthos roared and collided with him. They fell to the ground, and the force of impact was such that all of the air was forced from the young man’s lungs leaving him stunned and helpless as Porthos pinned him to the earth with a hand around his throat. Porthos then introduced him to his mighty right fist and was about to follow through with a second blow when the barrel of a pistol pressed against his skull.

                “Unhand my brother, or I swear by all that is holy, I will blow your brains out.”

                _A woman_ , Porthos thought, _and Spanish judging by the accent_. He was impressed by her, although not at all surprised that he was at the mercy of a woman. After all, he learned from Flea long ago that women were fully capable of fighting their own battles.

                He raised his hands in surrender and slowly stood. He watched as, the moment his weight was lifted from the young man’s body, the boy rolled onto his side and began coughing. The woman’s eyes never left Porthos when she spoke to her brother in Spanish so rapidly that Porthos was sure he wouldn’t have been able to understand her even if he was familiar with the language. The young man, still trying to catch his breath, only nodded weakly in response.

                “You sir,” she began, addressing Porthos once more, “have just attacked the man responsible for saving your life.”

                Porthos looked about in utter confusion. When had he been in danger? _The gunshot…_ He looked to where he’d settled down to sleep earlier and saw the still writhing corpse of a snake.

                “Warn me next time,” was all he could think to say as the reality of the situation sank in.

                “Wasn’t time,” the boy finally spoke although his voice was hoarse. “You’d be dead.” He cleared his throat and stepped toward Porthos. “Name’s René.”

                Porthos moved forward to meet him, and they clasped forearms.

                “Porthos. Sorry about…”

                “’S fine,” René attempted to reassure Porthos, but the croaking of his voice had Porthos believing René was likely anything but fine. “This is…” René’s words turned to coughing, and his sister moved toward him after returning her pistol to its place on her belt. It was only then that Porthos realized she was armed with far more than the firearm; he saw a sword and an assortment of knives and thought it reasonable to assume that she carried more than what was proudly displayed on her belts.

                “ _You_ stop talking,” she said to René while inspecting his neck. “And _you_ ,” she continued, this time addressing Porthos, “will stop staring or I’ll set the dogs on you.”

                Porthos was immediately horrified that he had in fact been staring at her and then that he had been caught by the very person his attention was fixated on. He cast his gaze to the grass before glancing around to see if said dogs were nearby. Much to his dismay, three dogs were charging right at him and gave no indication of slowing.

                “Kratos! Zelos! Nike!” René called and gave a low whistle. The dogs slowed, changed course, and eventually came to a stop around René’s feet. They danced happily about him, and Porthos fought to withhold his amusement as René’s sister became increasingly annoyed by the animals stepping all over her feet and repeatedly smacking her legs with their tails as they fought for the young man’s attention. She refocused her irritation in her brother’s direction and swatted at his shoulder.

                “I told you to stop talking,” she reprimanded.

                “You’re being incredibly rude to our guest,” he informed her instead of obeying. When she only raised an eyebrow at René, he continued speaking. “Porthos, this is my sister Ramona.”

                Porthos tilted his head in greeting, and Ramona recovered her manners long enough to return the gesture.

                “We should get going,” she thought aloud as she observed the sun’s journey to the horizon. René nodded and moved to follow after her but stopped.

                “I assume you’re headed into Saint-Malo.”

                “That’s right.”

                “You’ll never make it there before the storm hits, and it’ll be about high tide by the time you do.”

                Glancing at the sky for the first time since waking, Porthos noted the grey and angry-looking storm clouds quickly rolling in.

                “That being said, you are more than welcome to stay the night with Ramona and I at my uncle’s.”

                “I don’t want to intrude-“

                “You can’t possibly! My uncle is away on business and is not expected to return until at least the day after tomorrow. Porthos, if I gave a room to each of my dogs, I would _still_ have a room open for you. Unless you _want_ to spend the night cold and in the rain?”

                Every bit of Porthos’ pride demanded he say no. The young man standing before him had saved his life not even ten minutes prior, an act that Porthos answered with violence. Then René had freely offered Porthos a place to stay. Porthos wasn’t one to except charity; it typically ended in being manipulated into repaying favors, and he was _not_ in the mood for such tricks.

                “We have hot food,” René stated in a tone of voice that suggested he thought it might be enough to win Porthos over, and it nearly was.

                René looked down the road and saw the retreating form of his sister and then returned his gaze to Porthos. “If you refuse me, I’ll take it as an insult to me and my entire family,” he whispered.

                Porthos could tell by René’s facial expression that he was not entirely serious about the threat he’d just issued. However, having witnessed Ramona’s ire, he had no intention of testing the boundary between the jest and the offense, so he sighed and shook his head before looking René in the eye.

                “Well, then, I can hardly refuse, can I?”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Porthos was pulled from his tale by movement next to him on the bed. He looked down to find Aramis trying to blink sleep and exhaustion from his eyes.

                “Pirate story?” Aramis asked around a yawn.

                “I blame d’Art,” Porthos whispered with a wink. Aramis smiled, but his expression quickly changed when his stomach made a rather fierce growling sound.

                Athos heard the sound from across the room and raised his eyebrows in response. “Time for dinner then.”

                Constance stood and smoothed her skirts before declaring that she would aid Athos in his quest for sustenance, and the two left the room.

                “Seems I woke up at the right moment. The story was just about to get interesting,” Aramis murmured sleepily while Porthos laid a hand on his brow to check for fever.

                “You’re not going to decide to fall asleep and leave the rest of the story untold, are you? Because that’s terribly rude,” d’Artagnan grumped as he crossed the room to sit on the foot of the bed.

                “Nah,” Porthos smirked, “but food before the story. I can’t tell stories on an empty stomach.”

                “Fine. We eat dinner, and then you finish, promise?” d’Artagnan looked back and forth between the two men while they exchanged glances.

                “I promise,” Porthos answered. “I can’t guarantee he’ll make it though.”

                “But I will endeavor to remain awake to ensure the accuracy of the tale,” said Aramis, his normally blinding smile weaker than its standard but no less present.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my sincerest thanks for every kudos thing, comment, and bookmark! You guys keep this story going!

                When Athos and Constance returned with more than enough food for all of them, Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan gathered around the room’s small table to claim their meal while Constance carried a bowl of broth to Aramis who was sitting up against a wall of pillows.

                “How are you feeling?” she asked, setting the bowl on his lap and sneaking a hand behind the hair hanging in his face so she could feel his forehead. Aramis sighed and leaned into the cool of her hand. He was still slightly feverish, but Constance believed it was nothing a little food and rest couldn’t cure.

                “I’ll survive,” he whispered.

                “Is that your professional opinion?” Constance giggled, and a tired smile found its way onto Aramis’ face. “Can you manage this on your own?” She nodded toward the soup knowing full well that his left arm should be allowed to rest and movement of his right would likely pull on the still healing musket wound. However, she was not about to force her help on him nor deny him his pride. If he wanted her help, he would have to ask.

                Aramis looked down and the spoon and thought for a second before shaking his head. _I might as well admit it now before I end up in even more pain with broth spilled all over the bed_.

                “If you would be so kind,” he answered with his head bowed, the picture of humility.

                “I’ll handle him, Constance, if you would like to sup with your husband.” At Athos mention of d’Artagnan, the three of them looked to where the Gascon sat practically inhaling his food.

                “d’Artagnan,” Aramis called to his brother, “I’m sure France isn’t about to run out of food.” d’Artagnan stopped shoveling food into his mouth long enough to look up at the others, and Aramis burst into laughter at the sight.

                “He-he looks like-like a CHIPMUNK!” Porthos couldn’t contain his laughter once he realized that Aramis was right, the whelp did look very much like a chipmunk with so much food stuffed in his mouth. Athos and Constance joined in their mirth while d’Artagnan appeared mildly confused by it all.

                “Oh, God, it hurts,” Aramis giggled as they all fought to regain their composure.

                “What did I miss?” d’Artagnan asked, and Aramis unleashed another giggle that bordered on the hysterical.

                “I reckon it’s just the fever,” Porthos said with a straight face.

                d’Artagnan shifted his gaze to Athos desperate to know if he really had missed something and Porthos was covering up or if Aramis was truly experiencing some lingering effect of the fever.

                Athos placed his hand on Aramis forehead and then the side of his brother’s neck using the moment to further Porthos’ ruse as well as make his own assessment of Aramis’ condition. A brief moment of eye contact with Aramis told Athos that his brother was well aware of his dual motivation.

                “Yes, definitely the fever,” Athos confirmed with a wink that only Aramis and Porthos witnessed.

                “Then why did you all laugh?” d’Artagnan would not be easily convinced.

                “I hate being alone,” Aramis stated in such a serious tone that d’Artagnan regretted pushing the issue.

                After that, d’Artagnan and Constance kept to themselves at the table while Athos, Porthos, and Aramis ate and laughed on the bed. When they all finished their meal, Porthos and d’Artagnan removed the dishes from the room, d’Artagnan saying something about it being their turn to do something since Athos and Constance brought dinner.

                Aramis succumbed to a long yawn that left him cautiously stretching his limbs and settling deeper into his pillows. A gust of wind rattled the windows and sent a shiver down Aramis spine. It was then that he discovered he felt cold, incredibly cold, and lacked a blanket with which to remedy his need for warmth.

                “Cold?” Constance asked, and Aramis nodded with a hint of desperation. Athos approached the bed with not one, but two blankets while Constance rose to stoke the fire which had diminished more than any of them had realized. She smiled to herself as she observed Athos lifting each blanket high in the air before settling them on top of Aramis who practically burrowed underneath them in search of their promised warmth.

                “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” d’Artagnan cried upon reentering the room. “You can’t go to sleep! You’re supposed to finish the story!”

                “Is he always this demanding, Constance?” Aramis voice escaped from underneath the blankets now covering him entirely with the exception of a few curls.

                “Yes.”

                d’Artagnan sat pretzel-legged on the end of the bed and smacked Aramis’ foot. “You promised.”

                “No, _Porthos_ promised. I said I would try to stay awake to make sure he told it right,” Aramis corrected.

                Porthos grinned and settled into his previous place on the bed, and Aramis instinctively leaned toward the warmth of his brother who shimmied closer in response.

                “Where did I leave off?”

                “Storm,” the blankets supplied.

                Constance pulled up a chair on Porthos’ side of the bed and put her feet up on the edge of the bed while Athos sat in a chair on Aramis’ side.

                “Right, so we hadn’t even reached his uncle’s house when it began pouring rain.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “I told you you wouldn’t make it to Saint-Malo before the storm hit,” René said loud enough to be heard over the pouring rain. Porthos looked at René and shook his head. René wore a smile so bright Porthos almost wondered if the young man beside him preferred rain over the sun. He walked along like he was waterproof, seemingly content to trudge through the rain in clothes so drenched they stuck to him like a second skin.

                “Does anything ruin your mood?”

                “Much has tried,” René responded, and for a moment there was something very old and tired about his grin. Porthos was intimately familiar with that kind of expression; he’d used it himself on many occasion, especially after his mother died. Suddenly the man beside him seemed to possess hidden depths, for he was clearly not all beaming smiles and proper manners. That moment of revelation entirely changed the way Porthos looked at René. He could now see the slightly defeated slant of the shoulders and the almost imperceptible drag of feet that belied a certain kind of sorrow. Then all Porthos wanted to do was ask him about it, but he balked at the thought. He’d set out to join a ship’s crew and see the world, not make friends.

                “I thought goin’ to your uncle’s was meant to avoid bein’ rained on,” he retorted once he’d pulled himself from his thoughts. René shrugged his shoulders.

                “You know, I think Ramona fancies you,” he said to just to see how Porthos would react.

                The reaction did not disappoint. Porthos’ face changed from neutral to confused to mildly horrified and a number of emotions in between as René’s words sank in.

                “WHAT?!?” Porthos cried, not really sure how she would have managed that in the few moments they’d interacted. And then there was the bit where she’d held a gun to his head. All of his panic came to a screeching halt when he heard René guffawing and looked to his left to find him bent over double with the force of it.

                _He’s tricked me. He. Just. Tricked. Me._

                In the heat of the moment, Porthos reached out and shoved René off balance, and the young man toppled into the mud where he continued to laugh as if he’d just been told the greatest joke in the history of the entire world. It wasn’t something Porthos did out of anger, merely surprise that he’d actually let his guard down enough for René to trick him.

                “Your face! It was priceless!” René managed to squeak out amidst his laughter. He wiped at his face in an attempt to erase the tears of joy slowly leaking out but only succeeded at smearing mud all over his already soaked face. By then the dogs had become so excited by the sight of their master having such a grand time that they felt the need to join in as well. Kratos was trying to stand on René’s legs while Nike stood happily on René’s chest. Zelos settled for licking René’s face with unsurpassed enthusiasm. The scene was so comical Porthos couldn’t resist joining in with his own bellowing laugh, and soon the air was filled with great and harmonious laughter, the three Picardy spaniels howling along with the two young men.

                “We should probably get outta this rain,” Porthos sighed once they’d managed to mostly stop laughing and haul René to his feet.

                "Yeah, Ramona won't be pleased that we've fallen so far behind."

                "Is she always like that?"

                "Like what?"

                "Uptight, tense, grumpy," Porthos elaborated.

 

                "Not usually. She's just worried."

                "About what?" Porthos asked before he could stop himself. "If you don't mind me asking," he added.

                Porthos knew he'd asked both the right and wrong question when René's weary smile returned.

                "Me," he answered barely louder than a whisper.

                They walked on for a moment while Porthos warred with himself over whether or not to press René for an explanation, but then René cleared his throat and spoke again.

                "Fate has not been especially kind to me of late. A number of months ago, the woman I intended to make my wife lost the child and was sent away by her father. I don't know where she is, although I've been searching..."

                As René spoke and his gaze drifted off into the distance. Porthos thought the young man seemed to be searching the horizon for his love and the child, the child likely being a physical manifestation of their love for one another. René took a deep and shuddering breath, his gaze dropping to the muddy ground beneath his feet.

                "Several weeks ago my father fell ill, but there was nothing that could be done for him. He, uh," René swallowed thickly around the emotion closing his throat. "He passed a week and a half ago," he finished in a rush and shook his head, his curls sending little water droplets flying in every direction.

                Porthos wasn't normally a tactile individual, but as he watched René, a young man no more than a couple of years younger than himself, break apart in front of him, Porthos wanted nothing more than to reach out and hug the kid. He deliberated for only a second longer before grabbing René into an embrace that was perfectly warm despite the chilled rain yet falling from the heavens. When René offered no resistance to the act, Porthos regretted not comforting him sooner.

                "My apologies," René mumbled when he finally pulled away from Porthos. "It was not my intention to-"

                "I understand," Porthos interrupted. "I never knew my dad, but my mum died of fever when I was small."

                "Were you ever small?" René jested and wiped a stray tear with a rain soaked sleeve cuff. Porthos chuckled, and they resumed their slow walk.

                "Is it just you and Ramona then?" Porthos inquired figuring that was the safest way of asking if René's mother was yet among the living.

                "No. When my mother and father married, they'd both been married once before. My father's first wife bore him seven children. The eldest, Peppin, was stillborn. Next there were two more sons, Nathanael and Davet. Then the twins, Chane and Colbert, but they were born far too early and didn’t last the winter. After that, there were two more sons, Edmon and Bryant. When Bryant was no more than a year old, fever swept through the village and took him and his mother. After their death, my father took his three remaining sons, Nathanael, Davet, and Edmon, and moved to the French-Spanish border. There he met and eventually wed my mother. She'd been married to a ship's captain and blessed him with three sons and a daughter, Guillermo, Leandro, Hernando, and –“

                "Ramona?"

                "Ramona," Aramis confirmed with a smile that was much more like the ones Porthos had witnessed earlier. "The captain and his ship were lost in a hurricane somewhere in the Caribbean before Ramona was even born. My mother was given the news by the ship's first mate, my father's brother who was too ill to sail on that particular voyage. She met my father through her friendship with my uncle. In time they were married, and several years later I was born."

                "You the youngest then?"

                René nodded, and something about the movement had Porthos convinced that his friend (Had they become friends over the course of their walk?) was relieved they'd finally made it to the house.

                They were met by a rather cross looking Ramona who proceeded to usher them inside and demand they not take a step beyond the foyer before they were dry. She disappeared further into the house and returned not a minute later with warm, dry clothes and towels. Then she left them to change while she bathed the dogs before unleashing them into the rest of the house.

                "My mother died when I was seven," René whispered as he collected all of the laundry and then left the foyer.

                Ramona returned as René departed. She looked between Porthos and the retreating form of her half-brother several times before stepping closer to where Porthos yet stood.

                "What's happened?" Her voice was softer than Porthos had ever heard it, and when his eyes found hers, he saw brown eyes full to the brim with concern and love for her brother.

                "While we walked we talked about our families. Just now he told me your mother died when he was seven." Porthos searched Ramona's face for some clue that would explain the shift in René's persona. He wasn't so naive as to think ten years would make the loss of a mother any easier to bear, but there was something about the subtle way René's behavior had changed when he spoke of his mother. Porthos survived life in the Court of Miracles because he could read people, and every bit of that experience was telling him René was building up walls, defending himself from the world.

                He couldn't help but wonder why René seemed to suffer from the death of his mother as if she'd died as recently as his father. Perhaps the death of one dug up long suppressed memories and emotions of the two? Whatever it was, Porthos found himself desperate to know the answers to the mystery that was the death of his friend's mother.

                Ramona seemed to age right before Porthos' eyes. Could he blame her? Ramona was the only female in their family, and since René hadn't mentioned any beloved aunts or especially close grandmothers, Porthos assumed she'd likely raised René in place of their mother.

                "I don't mean to pry, but..." He wasn't even sure how to finish his question. Was there a socially acceptable way to ask about the circumstances of a person's death?

                "Perhaps we could take this conversation elsewhere?" She suggested and led Porthos to the kitchen where she offered him food and a steaming cup of tea.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Porthos fell silent and looked down at Aramis who had, over the course of the tale, slowly wiggled his way down the pillows until his head came to rest atop Porthos’ thigh.

                “Should I skip ahead?” he whispered so that d’Artagnan and Constance could not hear. d’Artagnan knew nothing of what Porthos was about to reveal save the end result, and Constance was aware of bits and pieces learned over the many years of her friendship with Aramis. Porthos had no intention of informing the pair if his brother did not want him to.

                “No, it’s fine,” Aramis murmured. When it seemed Porthos was yet unconvinced, Aramis added, “I’ll be fine.”

                Athos leaned forward and placed one of on Aramis’ and met his brother’s gaze in a silent display of his support. Aramis gave the slightest of nods in acknowledgement of the gesture before his attention was drawn away by movement at the foot of the bed.

                “Better hurry, Porthos, d’Artagnan’s getting antsy,” Aramis smiled, for there, still perched on the foot of the bed was their youngest brother practically bouncing in anticipation.

                Constance slapped his arm and donned her best scolding face. “Off the bed if you’re going to squirm! Aramis’ fever may be down, but that doesn’t mean the rest of him is fine!”

                d’Artagnan’s face paled as he considered the truth of his wife’s words. He immediately began studying Aramis for any sign of pain or discomfort and noted the way his friend’s muscles were tense, saw the hint of a wince in the laugh lines around his eyes. d’Artagnan sprang off the bed with all of the grace and coordination of a spooked animal, which is to say, very little of either. He fell to the floor with an _umph!_ that left Porthos chuckling and Aramis holding his bruised ribs as he tried to keep from laughing.

                When d’Artagnan finally untangled his limbs and regained his feet, Athos’ face radiated a certain kind of weariness that was distinctly Athos’.

                “That,” Athos stated with the lift of an eyebrow and tilt of his head, “was the exact opposite of helpful.”

                “Can I get back to the story now?” Porthos asked once d’Artagnan settled into a chair.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “When Aramis was seven, we moved away from the border and deeper into France. We did not know until we moved there that the people in the area were not particularly fond of the Spanish and even less so of the joining of French and Spanish blood; they felt it was an abomination. They called my mother’s union with my step-father unholy and shouted terrible things at her and her children. She wanted to shelter René from their ignorance, but he was not meant for such solitude. He thrives on learning new things, exploring his surroundings. He was born with an adventurous soul. When she and his father could no longer deny him, they agreed to let him be tutored in town by the one person who did not possess the ridiculous bias of everyone else. Just before winter, my step-father and Nathanael were called away on business to Paris and did not expect to return until late spring. Not long after they left, René started coming home with bruises, sometimes a bloody nose. The children of the townspeople were bullying him every time he went into town. His tutor begged him to stay away from them, pleaded with my mother to keep him home, but René took to sneaking out of the house whenever she tried, so she tried to convince the town to treat René better. They laughed her out of town, and René did his best to improve her mood when she returned. I’m sure you’ve seen by now how infectious his mirth can be.”

                Porthos nodded and even smiled a little. He _had_ seen it. It was what drew Porthos to René, that undefeatable enthusiasm for life that Porthos had never witnessed in the Court of Miracles.

                “Once we saw that his smile was doing what we’d hoped, my brothers and I left the house to gather ingredients for my mother’s favorite meal; between René and the food we hoped to make her forget her worries, if only for the night.” Ramona fell silent for a moment and cleared her throat while bracing herself against the countertop. “When we returned, the house was being consumed by fire, and nearly a half dozen men were gathered in the front yard shouting terrible things about my family and the burden of the Spanish upon the ‘ _good people of France_ ’,” Ramona practically snarled before checking her temper. “Davet and Edmon chased them off while Guillermo, Leandro, Hernando, and I ran for the house. We could hear René calling to our mother, but when we found them inside, we knew there was no way to save her; she was trapped. She told us to go, to look out for René. It took Guillermo and Leandro to wrestle René away from her, and all of us had to hold him to keep him from running back into the house. We lost everything with the house, and for a time it seemed as though we’d lost René as well. He didn’t speak until we met here with his father in the spring. That’s why we’re here now; René’s uncle has a way of drawing him out of his sorrow.”

                Porthos and Ramona stood there in silence for so long the storm blew over and night settled across the land. They were jolted from the reveries when the main door opened, and two sets of wet footsteps echoed through the empty foyer. Ramona’s face perked up and, rounding the counter that had separated her from Porthos, took hold of his wrist and pulled him after her.

                The first person they encountered was a man likely in his early twenties who pulled Ramona into a tight embrace before quickly declaring something in Spanish, politely greeting Porthos, and darting off to another part of the house.

                “Ramona!” came the enthusiastic greeting from the entryway. This man, Porthos assumed he was the ‘uncle’ Ramona and René kept referring to, was tall and tan from time spent in the sun. He was dripping from head to toe although he seemed to be headed toward a state of dryness. He hugged Ramona with such affection and force that Porthos wondered how she could continue breathing. “I got Nathanael’s letter,” the uncle murmured with his cheek pressed to the top of Ramona’s head. “Are you well?” He pulled back and held her at arm’s length while he waited for her response.

                “I’m fine,” she assured him, and Porthos found it amusing that Ramona didn’t seem to mind that she’d just hugged her exceptionally wet uncle when earlier she’d been so insistent that he and René be completely dry before allowing them to move about the house.

                “And René?” The man looked beyond Ramona in search of his nephew but instead found Porthos. The man’s face lit up at the prospect of a guest. “And who’s this?” Porthos felt sure at least half of René’s people-loving nature came from his father’s side of the family as he watched his friend’s uncle.

                “He’s…he’s been better,” Ramona admitted and turned to look at Porthos. “And this is Porthos. René saw him dozing beside a snake earlier today and did him the favor of shooting its head off. I’ll let them tell you about it, after you change into something dry.”

                “Yes, milady,” the man said with an overly dramatic bow. Ramona rolled her eyes and walked back toward the kitchen.

                “I’m going to make dinner,” she declared over her shoulder and disappeared from sight.

                “Porthos! I am Fernand, uncle of René, and though only through marriage, Ramona as well. It gives me great pleasure to welcome you into my home.” Fernand and gave another lavish bow.


	14. Chapter 14

                “Will you be staying with us?” Fernand inquired as he led Porthos through the house.

                It took Porthos several seconds to process what his host had asked and then respond, for his senses were being overwhelmed by the house and its furnishings. Up to that point, Porthos had been inside plenty of houses of varying size and status but the only experience he had to compare to the house he found himself in was a cathedral he’d snuck into on several occasions to escape the cold for a few hours. While logic told him there were far more lavish lodgings in the world, Fernand’s was the most impressive he’d been in, and he doubted the Louvre itself could be more beautiful.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “Athos’ house is bigger,” Aramis interjected. “Not a great deal bigger, but still.”

                Aramis’ voice slurred as he fought to stay awake, and Athos chuckled at both Aramis’ clarification of Porthos’ description and Aramis’ efforts to defeat sleep. D’Artagnan only nodded thoughtfully as though he was adjusting his mental image of what Fernand’s house looked like. Constance didn’t even look away from her efforts to mend the tear in Aramis’ coat while Porthos fixed his injured brother with an eyebrow raised in a way that clearly asked, _Are you done now?_.

                “Sorry,” Aramis shrugged and burrowed just a little deeper into the bed.

                “Well, what it lacked in size it more than made up for in style. No offense, Athos.”

                “None taken.”

                “Porthos,” Constance began, “now that you’ve been in the Louvre many times…”

                “I don’t think you can really compare the two.”

                “That’s not an answer, at least not an acceptable one,” Athos commented dryly.

                Porthos looked to Aramis for his opinion, and Aramis blinked up at him, his eyes alight with interest in Porthos’ response to Athos’ prompting.

                “The Louvre is grand, but it feels hollow.” Porthos sighed and considered his next words. “Fernand’s place, it feels like…like…”

                “Warm? Welcoming?” supplied Aramis.

                “Yeah, like home,” Porthos agreed and nodded, a small smile blooming in the corner of his mouth. “Satisfied?” He waited for any indication of forthcoming interruptions but found only faces glowing with expectation. “Right then.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “René convinced me to,” Porthos said, his eyes never leaving the paintings that covered the walls, the elegant patterns on the ceiling, the rich colors of the tapestries. Fernand chuckled and the sound was so full of fondness that Porthos felt he was beginning to understand why René sought out his uncle’s presence when his world seemed to be crashing down around him.

                “He can be incomparably convincing when he wants to be,” Fernand said in such a way that Porthos was convinced this trait had been a source of great entertainment in the past. “I blame Erendira’s mother for it,” the man added as the made their way up the stairs to the second story of the house.

                “Erendira?” Porthos asked. He was quite sure that name hadn’t been thrown at him in his conversations with René and Ramona.

                “René’s mother. Her mother is one of the feistiest women in the entirety of Europe, and she passed that on to Erendira who passed it to all of her children although I’d say René and Guillermo got most of it.”

                Porthos found himself thinking, _His whole family is like this?!_ , and before he could stop himself he said, “I think it comes from both sides of the family.” His steps faltered for the briefest of seconds, his brain fully prepared to panic and his body tensed to defend himself if he’d insulted the man. Much to his relief, Fernand doubled over with laughter and even after his host straightened, he continued to laugh as he walked down the hall.

                “I believe you’re right, Porthos.” Fernand came to a halt in front of the second to last room on the hall. “This room is yours for as long as you wish,” he said as he spread an arm toward the open door in a gesture of welcome.

                Fernand sucked in a breath to continue what Porthos assumed was going to become a rather lengthy and certainly dramatic ‘make yourself at home’ speech, but Fernand paused when soft voices filtered past the ajar door of the hall’s final room. His expression became a mixture of contentment, affection, and perhaps an ounce of sorrow.

                Porthos nearly jumped out of his skin when Ramona appeared beside him.

                “Tío, have you seen Nathanael?”

                Fernand smiled and tilted his head in the direction of René’s room. “Unless René’s taken to conversing with himself using his brother’s voice.”

                “He can imitate them all well enough. Last month he managed to convince Edmon that Guillermo had returned early from the Americas.”

                “You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Fernand said, his smile morphing into a mischievous grin.

                “Later. I need to get back to the kitchen.” Ramona politely stepped around Porthos and her uncle, gently knocked on René’s door and slid inside with a tea tray expertly balanced on one arm.

                “The Americas?” Porthos wondered aloud.

                “Yes, Guillermo owns his own ship, captains her too. He’s been at sea for nearly a year now trading with the colonies among other things. He and Davet have a business deal. Davet, Edmon, and Leandro raise horses, and Guillermo sells a few when he sails. I don’t know the specifics of it, but it works.”

                “Is it profitable?”

                “Apparently,” Fernand practically laughed. “They’ve been doing so for several years now, so I assume it’s worth the risk.”

                “You mean pirates?”

                That time Fernand did laugh, clear and loud. The sound echoed through the hall, and Porthos was curious as to whether or not it carried throughout the rest of the house.

                “Among other things. I’m sure my nephews and Ramona could explain it to you in greater detail.”

                At that moment Ramona emerged into the hall and raised a questioning eyebrow at the mention of her name.

                “What can I explain?”

                “The business practices of your brothers.”

                “Ah,” she breathed and Porthos witnessed a smile forming in her eyes. “I think I’ll leave it to them. You know how they love to talk about it,” Ramona finished with a wink.

                “Too true.” Fernand released an exaggerated sigh and looked down at his yet rain-soaked clothing. “Excuse me,” he apologized and departed to make himself more presentable and less likely to fall ill.

                “Porthos, would you like to help with dinner?”

                Porthos was momentarily stunned by the question but recovered quickly.

                “Sure.” He smiled and followed Ramona back to the kitchen where he was overjoyed to be given something to do.

                “Tell me about yourself,” Ramona said as she built up the fire a little more.

                “What do you want to know?”

                _Why did I ask that? Why am I about to spill my story to these people? Are they brainwashing me?_

                But then a small voice in the back of Porthos mind pushed its way to the front.

                _This is what family feels like_ , he thought as he began preparing fish.

                Sure Porthos had been in a family of sorts while he was in the Court, but then he also understood that Charon and Flea would turn on him if it meant their own survival.

                What he was experiencing among René and his relatives was something much different, and though some of them were related by blood, blood was not the bond holding them together. The more he witnessed it, the more he wanted it for himself. So he found himself in the kitchen with Ramona and fully prepared to share his past if it meant he could better understand this family.

                “Where are you from?” She moved to the table near the room’s center and set to chopping vegetables.

                “Paris.”

                “Do you like it there?”

                “Mmmm….yes.”

                “But you left.”

                “Yes.”

                “Why?”

                “Thirst for adventure.”

                Ramona smiled and laughed then, and Porthos fought the urge to be offended. _Is she mocking me?_

                Something in his expression must have given him away because suddenly Ramona blushed with embarrassment.

                “I’m sorry. It’s just…,” she sighed, collecting her thoughts. “My brothers say the same thing.” A cautious smile crept into her features replacing the previous embarrassment.

                “Do they?”

                “Mmhmm. Well, some of them more than others.” She looked from the vegetables she’d been happily hacking away at and realized Porthos was waiting for some sort of explanation.

                “Davet and Edmon are content to continue their father’s business of raising horses, and it pleases Leandro to join them. For them, it is their adventure. Nathanael and Guillermo are restless souls by nature. They find their adventure on the sea. Our parents used to say the ocean calls to them.”

                “And does it?”

                Ramona nodded, a certain excitement permeating the movement. “When you meet them, you’ll see.”

                “Is Guillermo here?”

                “No, but the wind is in the west. It won’t be long now.”

                Porthos blinked at that. There was something about the way she spoke of the wind.

                “What about you?”

                “Me?” Ramona asked.

                “Does the sea call to you?”

                Ramona lifted her head and looked Porthos straight in the eye.

                Many times Porthos had heard people speak of seeing the ocean in a person’s blue eyes, but when Porthos met Ramona’s gaze, he was quite certain he’d seen the sea there in the depths of her sparkling, hazel eyes.

                “Yes.” There was that nod again.

                “And René?” he asked, eyes still locked on hers.

                “René is born of two restless souls. He doesn’t thirst for adventure the way you and I do. He lusts after it, suffocates without it. I don’t think the sea is enough for him.” Her eyes lost focus as she sought an adequate way of elaborating. “Nathanael and Guillermo are satisfied by the ocean. It is enough for them, but I don’t think any one thing will ever be enough for René. Does that make sense? He’s like a fire; it must always be fed. He will always seek adventure, living from one thrill to the next. He craves danger; it’s why he shot your snake.”

                “I think that was a bit more dangerous for me than it was for him.”

                “This is true,” she managed to say through barely suppressed laughter. Porthos watched as the dam finally broke and the melodious sounds of her mirth completely drowned out the hissing and cracking of the fire as well as the next wave of the storm as it broke upon the house. Porthos cocked his head to one side in curiosity when he began to suspect something else was driving her amusement to greater heights.

                “What?”

                “I just – sorry – I suddenly remembered that our parents wanted René to enter the priesthood.”

                Porthos stood dumbfounded, his mouth falling open a fraction while he tried to envision René becoming a priest. The only priests Porthos had ever run into were old, stiff, and grumpy. How could René enter such a life?

                Ramona laughed even more when she saw Porthos’ expression. She covered her mouth with the back of her left hand while here right hand rested on her hip, the knife she’d been using still loosely held within her grasp.

                Finally she managed to quell her giggles and dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, wiping away the moisture gathered there from the magnitude of her joy. She then brushed a stray curl out of her face and resumed her task of preparing dinner.

                “So, Porthos, you left Paris because you thirst for adventure.”

                “Yes. I’m sorry, but what the hell is _that_?” Porthos pointed to, was that a vegetable in Ramona’s hand?

                “This,” she said waving whatever it was in the air, “is a potato.”

                “A potato.”

                “It comes from Spanish territory in the Americas. I take it you’ve never eaten one?”

                Porthos huffed a short laugh and shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

                “What’s an adventure without good food?”

                Porthos dipped his head in concession, a smile tugging one corner of his mouth skyward.

                As they continued preparing the evening meal, their conversation drifted from potatoes to their favorite foods to places they’d been and places they longed to visit.

                Once everything was ready to be consumed, Ramona asked Porthos to collect her brothers, uncle, and cousin while she set the table. Porthos barely reached the door before it was opening and he was greeted by Fernand’s beaming smile.

                “Ah, Porthos!” the man said as he threw an arm around Porthos’ shoulder. “I believe there are a few here whom you have yet to meet. This is Bram, my youngest.”

                Outstepped the young man he’d met briefly in the hall earlier that afternoon.

                “Céad mile fáilte,” Bram greeted with great enthusiasm, his wavy reddish-brown hair bouncing as he shook Porthos’ hand with the same energy with which he spoke.

                “He says, ‘a hundred thousand welcomes’,” came a voice behind Bram.

                “What language is that?”

                “My mother’s native tongue,” Bram proclaimed, and Porthos’ eyebrows crept up toward his hairline, still lacking an answer he could understand.

                “And what a beautiful Irish woman she is,” Fernand declared, removing his arm from Porthos’ frame in order to pull his son into a fond embrace.

                “Quick! Change the subject!” came the nameless voice once more, but Porthos suspected it belonged to Nathanael.

                “Porthos, this rude child is my eldest nephew, Nathanael.”

                Nathanael stepped around Bram to shake Porthos’ hand. He had close-cropped blond hair that was bleached by the sun to a near-blinding hue. His skin was well-tanned and made Bram’s pale flesh look ghostly by comparison. Several scars adorned Nathanael’s otherwise unblemished face and gave him a rather dashing and roguish appearance, especially with the aid of his mustached and meticulously trimmed beard.

                “Enchanté, Porthos. My little brother just finished telling me about your adventure earlier today. He says you have the strength of a hurricane.”

                Porthos was unsure as to how he should respond to Nathanael’s words. After all, René only knew of his strength because he’d been on the receiving end of it, and Porthos had no desire to upset the family and be cast out before he’d even had a chance to try Ramona’s potatoes.

                Then René emerged from behind his relatives, and upon seeing the fist-sized bruise on the left side of René’s face as well as the slight bruising developing on his neck, Porthos was convinced that he’d been introduced to Bram and Nathanael merely to inform him of who exactly was about to chase him from the house.

                Nathanael, taking note of the uneasy shift in Porthos’ stance, looked to René and back to Porthos before throwing his arm around Porthos and steering him toward the stairs and saying, “Don’t worry so! I think you may have improved his looks, and I’ve told him as much although he heartily disagrees. More likely than not young René is worried the lovely ladies of Saint-Malo will refuse him now that-“

                And whatever Nathanael had been planning to say went unheard, for René had chased after his elder brother who, in turn, took flight, bounding down the stairs and skipping so many Porthos was impressed they hadn’t broken their necks.

                “Please excuse them,” Bram said as he filled the space vacated by Nathanael. “From time to time they completely reject Ramona’s attempts to make them respectable members of society.”

                Fernand and Bram chuckled leaving Porthos to wonder at such attempts.

                “GUILLERMO!” René’s excited cry sounded through the whole house, and those not already in the dining room made haste to greet their newly-arrived comrade. When Porthos was introduced to Guillermo, he found himself considering the extreme similarities between Guillermo’s and René’s features. René was practically a slightly less grown version of his oldest Spanish brother, and that revelation caused Porthos to recall Fernand’s earlier words about René and Guillermo taking after their mother more than the others did.

                Once all of the hugging and hair ruffling was done, they all sat down to eat the meal Ramona and Porthos had prepared. Porthos had just lifted his fork to dig in when he realized René and Ramona were watching him, René with a smile in his eyes and Ramona endeavoring to be infinitely more discreet than her brother. René allowed his smile to spread from his eyes to the rest of his face, his growing grin encouraging Porthos to eat.

                Porthos quickly found that he had no idea how he’d managed to live his life without potatoes, and he did not hesitate in expressing his gratitude to Ramona for the culinary revelation. The fish was also some of the best he’d ever tasted.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “’Some of the best you’ve ever tasted’?” Aramis practically squeaked. “You wouldn’t shut up about how incredible it tasted! ‘Ramona, what’s your secret?’” Aramis mocked his dearest friend.

                “Hush, you,” Porthos chided and mussed Aramis’ hair for good measure. “You’ll wake the whelp, carrying on like that,” he added.

                Aramis peeked out from under his blanket mountain and smirked when he saw d’Artagnan asleep and leaning on Constance.

                “I’m not repeating this story for him,” Aramis warned and Athos huffed in mild amusement.

                “You’re not even telling it now.”

                “No one asked you, Athos,” Aramis grumped and disappeared once more under the covers.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                After dinner everyone moved into a large sitting room. The moment René stepped into the room he was pounced upon by his three dogs and fell to the rug in front of the roaring fire. Guillermo and Nathanael settled onto the rug on either side of their youngest brother and the dog pile. Ramona, Fernand, and Porthos sat themselves in the various chairs and couches in the room. Bram sat at the foot of his father’s chair, and Porthos noted that this was a matter of preference and certainly not a lack of available furniture.

                “So, Porthos,” Fernand began after lighting his pipe. “What brings you to Saint-Malo?”

                Ramona gave an encouraging wink from where she sat on the other side of the fireplace, her feet neatly tucked beneath her.

                “Well, I left Paris a few years ago, so I could see more of France, but I’ve decided it’s not enough. I want to see the world, so I headed for the closest port which happened to be Saint-Malo.”

                “Are you going to join a ship’s crew?” René inquired, so enthusiastic about Porthos’ answer he unburied himself from beneath his dogs and bolted upright.

                “That is my intention,” Porthos replied but suddenly became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he sat in a room surrounded by capable seamen.

                “Have you found a ship yet?” Guillermo’s tone was contemplative and his eyes soft.

                “No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t even been to the city yet,” René interjected before Porthos could even take a breath to answer.

                “René, Guillermo wasn’t asking you,” Ramona scolded lightly.

                “No, I haven’t,” Porthos stated.

                He watched as silent conversation seemed to play out between Nathanael and Guillermo. Then René grew impatient and decided to force his opinion into the discussion by placing his head directly in Nathanael and Guillermo’s line of sight, and Guillermo eventually seemed to come to a decision.

                “How do you feel about the English?” Bram inquired as if it were a perfectly normal question to ask without any clear preamble.

                “I’ve no reason to love ‘em,” Porthos replied honestly.

                “What about the Portuguese?” asked Nathanael.

                “Or the Dutch?” prompted Guillermo.

                “I’m not particularly attached?” Porthos said, his confusion mounting.

                “How do you feel about piracy?” René’s face was devoid of any emotions, any tells whatsoever.

                “Piracy.”

                “Piracy,” René confirmed.

                Porthos considered the question for a moment. Was piracy any different than the practices he’d engaged in while living in the Court of Miracles? Theft was theft whether it occurred on land or on sea. Taking a deep breath, he knew he’d found his answer.

                “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

                “And if it’s done out of something other than necessity?” Fernand pushed.

                “Every man needs a hobby. Or woman,” Porthos added becoming certain that the sea wasn’t the _only_ thing calling to that family. He winked at Ramona and a smile spread across her face the way an ink stain grows on a sheet of paper.

                “Well, Porthos, it just so happens that there are several vacancies in my crew. Have you ever sailed before?”

                Upon hearing Guillermo’s words René’s face lit up like the midday sun, and Porthos fought the urge to laugh at the childlike nature of the expression.

                “No, I haven’t.”

                “Then we’ll spend the storm season teaching you what you need to know. If you take to it, you’re more than welcome to join the crew when we next set sail. Do you find these terms acceptable?”

                “I do,” Porthos stated after a second’s consideration.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                “And that’s how I became a pirate.”

                “Why do I feel there’s a great deal more that happens after you saying yes to Guillermo?” Constance questioned.

                “Well, we terrorized the people of Saint-Malo when he wasn’t learning about the life of a pirate and I wasn’t gleaning everything I could from the city’s physician,” Aramis offered.

                Athos sighed, “Why does that not surprise me?”

                “What did you do after that, Aramis?” Constance tried to speak as softly as she could without waking the man now drooling on her shoulder.

                “After what?”

                “When they set sail, did you go with them?”

                A muffled chuckle escaped the blankets. “No. No, I ran off to become a soldier. A year later the Musketeers were founded and I received my commission.”

                Silence reigned until a rather obnoxious snore issued forth from d’Artagnan.

                “I’ll see you all in the morning,” Constance murmured as she roused her husband from his slumber.

                “Wait? Story’s not done,” d’Artagnan slurred as his wife stood and walked to the door.

                “Yes, it is,” she countered.

                “I’ll fill you in later,” Athos offered, and the youngest Musketeer nodded in thanks before shuffling out of the room.

                “Are we leaving tomorrow?”

                “Are you well enough to leave tomorrow?” Athos questioned while extinguishing the candles.

                “I’ve memorized the ceiling; I better be well enough to leave tomorrow or I may lose my mind.”

                Porthos hummed in amusement over his brother’s moodiness. “Go to sleep, ‘Mis. Being grumpy is Athos’ job.”

                As darkness descended upon the room aside from the soft glow emanating from the fireplace, the three inseparable Musketeers curled into their blankets, bidding each other goodnight and wishing restful sleep upon one another. Within the span of a moment all had surrendered to Morpheus until the return of morning’s light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The super lovely ofahattersmind on Tumblr, FanFic, and here on AO3 did a wonderful sketch of Nathanael and one of Guillermo; both can be found on Tumblr.  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

**“ _MY_** hair is getting long? What about **_YOURS_**?” Aramis cried, his shock carrying his voice several octaves above its standard. “When was the last time you looked at yourself? You won’t be known as Porthos the _Pirate_ anymore; they’ll call you Porthos the _Bear_! Porthos the _Savage_ , the _WILD MAN_! I’m not sure which needs to be tamed more, your hair or your beard!”

                “You’re completely overreactin’,” Porthos attempted to placate his rather cross-looking friend who sat grumpily in the wagon, “and if you keep carryin’ on like that, you’ll hurt yourself and I’ll lock you in a room until you're better.”

                Aramis arched an eyebrow at his brother, his displeasure and complete lack of amusement evident upon his face. Their conversation had begun with Aramis grumping about not being allowed to ride and how he’d ridden with far worse injuries during countless missions in the past. _Why should some bruises and an arm in a sling keep me from riding_ , he’d questioned, but then Porthos had so kindly pointed out that if this were a mission, then getting Aramis back to Paris was their objective and that absolutely **did not** include riding up to the garrison gates half-dead and falling of his horse. From there their repartee had steadily turned more and more toward sarcastic comments and mostly playful insults born of years of comradery.

                Constance giggled from her seat on the wagon’s bench as she drove.

                “What about d’Artagnan’s hair?” Porthos said.

                Aramis waved his free hand in dismissal before commenting with a perfectly straight face and a tone that suggested they’d been over this many times before, “My dear Porthos, the boy grows his **hair** because he can’t grow a **beard** ”.

                “First of all, I am not a child,” d’Artagnan called from where he rode in the lead with Athos, “I’m a man. Second, I am fully capable of growing a beard.”

                “Prove it!” Aramis and Porthos began yelling immediately, and when Constance joined in, the Gason’s face reddened.

                “I can’t just grow a beard in an hour! No one can!” d’Artagnan cried at the injustice of their demand.

                “I can,” Porthos laughed as their youngest member became increasingly flustered.

                “Why hasn’t any one made fun of **_Athos’_** hair?”

                Athos slowly turned in his saddle and stared at d’Artagnan with an intensity that had the young man wishing he hadn’t said a word or at the very least that he could somehow disappear, thereby avoiding the coming wrath.

                “Do you find my hair funny?”

                d’Artagnan opened and closed his mouth several times like a fish. Athos turned to look at Constance, Porthos, and Aramis with the same expression he’d loosed upon d’Artagnan.

                “Any one?”

                Porthos glanced to his left to see how Aramis was holding up under such scrutiny and was incredibly pleased to find that his brother was no longer trying to twist in order to be involved in the conversation taking place behind him. Facing the direction from whence they’d come, Aramis unleashed the grin he found he could no longer suppress and worked instead to keep his upper body as still as possible while silent laughter overtook him and caused his eyes to water.

                Athos was no fool; he knew his appearance had changed since he was made Captain. Somewhere between the responsibilities that came with his rank and making sure the men under his command were prepared for war he’d lost track of time and, as a result, his looks. He hadn’t taken the time to cut his hair, and he felt he’d save time by having less facial hair than having to continuously trim and maintain his previously wondrous beard.

                At the present moment he wasn’t sure which was amusing Aramis more: his appearance or his reaction to d’Artagnan. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his friend returned to his original backward facing position in which he could lean back against the wagon’s bench. Then what he could see of Aramis’ cheeks gathered upward in what was obviously a smile. However, d’Artagnan hadn’t seemed to notice, so Athos decided to let Aramis get away with it for the moment; there would be plenty of opportunities to get back at his brother later.

                “Porthos, let’s play rhymes.”

                “Sometimes Athos makes a big _fuss_.”

                “Usually because of _us_.”

                “I don’t think he means us _harm_.”

                “Because he envies our _charm_.”

                “Stop that _rhyming_ , and I mean it!” Athos moaned from the front of their group.

                “Anybody want a peanut?” Porthos and Aramis burst into laughter while Athos groaned in a fashion unbecoming a captain.

                A quarter of an hour later, the mounted Musketeers rotated positions, Athos moving to ride beside the wagon, and not an hour after that he found himself willingly aiding Aramis in his attempt to avoid sleep.

                “Any sleep I manage in this box on wheels will be poor and restless, incredibly unpleasant,” Aramis had grumped. And so, lacking any reason Aramis would accept but having plenty experience of his own riding in wagons while injured, Athos provided Aramis with continuous conversation, trying to keep the topics engaging enough that his friend remained awake, but not so demanding that the marksman utterly exhausted himself. Athos wondered if such a consideration even mattered given his friend’s tendency of being lulled by the depth and flow of the older man’s voice.

                “Now tell me honestly, do I look that bad?” Athos questioned.

                Aramis studied Athos’ face with an intensity Athos typically only witnessed when Aramis demonstrated his prowess with firearms.

                “I suppose you hair’s not so bad, and, as Porthos so kindly pointed out earlier, I have no stones to throw in the matter of long hair. It may, however, benefit you to shave less. Then again, you’d look like a bit of a cave man were you to maintain your hair length _and_ return to your bearded glory days.”

                “Bearded glory days?” There was a hint of laughter in Athos’ words.

                “Surely you don’t see whatever’s growing on your face as the best you’ve grown? But more importantly, what does Milady think?”

                Athos huffed a sad, weary sort of laugh. “I haven’t the faintest idea. She left for England not long after you left for Douai. She made me an offer, asked me to meet her, but suddenly I was made Captain and I couldn’t get away in time. All that awaited me there was a single glove.”

                “Athos, forgive me. Hold on! Did you say _England_?”

                Athos dipped his head in confirmation, and his lips curled upwards in the beginning of a smile; he knew exactly what was coming.

                “But why England?! It rains _all_ the _time_. The wine is not nearly as good. The- the people have terrible teeth! And the _food_! The _food_ is … Is there even a word for the food? **_Is it even food_**? The _rats_ here eat better food than the English! The **_rats_**! In fact, I think English food is the only torture I’m incapable of enduring,” Aramis stated with such certainty that Athos’ smile grew into a near blinding grin.

                “I told her much the same,” Athos responded and wondered, not for the first time, if she’d said England merely to test his devotion to her.

                “Well, were she here, I believe she’d tell you to get a haircut and grow a beard, but you know her far better than I.”

                “However,” Aramis began again after a moment’s silence, “You could try simply letting your looks go, and then maybe she’ll return just to tell you how ridiculous you look.” This elicited laughter from everyone.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                They paused midafternoon to stretch and snack. Aramis managed nearly half of his hunk of bread before dozing off, his head slowly dropping until his chin met his chest.

                “I’m going to ride ahead,” Athos quietly announced as he moved to stand next to his companions. “We’re not far from the city now, but I’d feel much better knowing there’s a warm bed waiting for him.”

                The captain of the Musketeers looked to the sky where the clouds were once more gathering and promising a cold rain by nightfall. Porthos followed Athos’ gaze before glancing at Aramis and wincing at the uncomfortable way his brother’s head hung.

                “Make sure you find a decent pillow for ‘im. I wager his neck’s gonna be pretty sore when he wakes.”

                Athos smiled in appreciation of Porthos’ forethought.

                “He’ll probably have a fever again,” Constance sighed causing d’Artagnan to shake his head.

                “We shouldn’t have let him out of bed.”

                “You just remember that the next time you’re hurt and someone tells you to stay in bed,” Porthos stated, and Athos let out a sound of disbelief.

                “If that works, I’ll start attending Mass regularly.” Then Athos swung himself onto his saddle and turned to face his family once more. “Take care.”

                When the only remaining sign of Athos’ departure was a cloud of dust rising up from the earth, Constance and d’Artagnan climbed onto the wagon and laid Aramis down, Constance declaring her neck had begun aching in sympathy and she could bear neither the sight nor the sensation any longer.

                “He’s quite warm,” d’Artagnan reported.

                With that in mind, their small group resumed their journey, praying they’d reach Paris soon.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Athos found himself at the garrison before his mind had even fully comprehended his entering the city. He left his horse for a stable hand to take care of, not his usual not preferred practice, but he had things to see to that he felt outweighed personally tending to his mount. Bound up the stairs, Athos decided first to pen a note to Tréville informing him of their coming, so when he entered his office, he strode to the desk and began writing, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

                Once the note was written, the ink dried, and the note sealed, Athos reemerged from his office and scanned the yard for someone to deliver the message.

                “Henri!” Athos called to one of the apprentice Musketeers. “Take this message to the Minister of War at the palace. Should he respond, wait there for it; otherwise, return to your duties.”

                “Yes, sir!” the lad acknowledged as he accepted the missive and hurried from the yard.

                Athos took a deep breath and then set off to accomplish the next task on his mental to-do list.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Tréville leaned over the desk observing with a practiced eye the maps he’d laid out across his desk.

                “Will it be enough?” Queen Anne asked from across the desk. “Will our forces be enough for my husband to defeat my brother?”

                Since King Louis’ departure some days prior on ‘an errand of great importance’ and his claim that he’d not be back for several weeks, Anne had requested Tréville instruct her on war strategy. Generally when Louis wanted to discuss the coming war with Spain, Anne was dismissed, and while queens were rarely involved in talks concerning military efforts, Anne did little to mask her displeasure concerning that tradition when she was alone with Tréville and Athos.

                Tréville knew he was taking a risk educating the queen in the art of war. Despite Rochefort’s demise and discovered madness, Anne’s honor and reputation were still being questioned as a result of Rochefort’s poison. If anyone found out what Tréville was doing, the Queen would be declared a Spanish spy and he a traitor. But Tréville didn’t mind the risk; he knew Anne was loyal if for no other reasons than her son and the child’s father.

                “I do not believe the king understands that my brother will not make amends simply because France flexes her muscles. Phillip will undoubtedly respond with force. Will we be ready?”

                “On the southern front, yes,” Tréville began and slid his hand across a map from France’s border with Spain to the northern coast. “But I fear Louis has forgotten the north. Should King Phillip mobilize his armada while the north is undefended, we will not know of it until the Spanish are upon us and there will be no time to redeploy troops before Paris is taken.”

                “Could we perhaps plant a spy among them?”

                “We already have several-“

                “Are they Spanish? Can they at least pass as Spanish?”

                “Most of them aren’t.”

                “Send someone Spanish. Your spies will never be trusted if they are French. And they must sound Spanish as well; you cannot have a spy speaking Spanish like a Frenchman.”

                “Do you have someone in mind?” Tréville asked although he felt quite certain he knew whom the queen was thinking of.

                “Do you think he would-“

                Then there was a knock at the door, and soon after a young man hastened into the room and delivered a letter to Tréville. The Minister read over the words penned in Athos’ hand and tucked the message into the folds of his coat.

                “Please tell Athos I will join him as soon as possible.”

                “They’ve returned?” Anne questioned when the door clicked shut.

                “Athos has; the others are on their way and should be here by day’s end at the latest.”

                “Captain, I know it is not acceptable and I have no right, but…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High fives to anyone who caught the movie reference.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Linguam who unintentionally kicked my writer’s block in the face. :D
> 
> There’s some blood in here. Also, feels ahead; tissues may be needed.

                Athos walked with all the enthusiasm of a man bound for the gallows. While nothing so fatal awaited Athos at his journey’s end, he wondered if the emotional outcome would be similar. One week ago, Athos informed Aramis of the possible mission in Spain, offering and _never_ ordering Aramis to accept. After Athos finished reciting the details of the task, he’d refused to hear Aramis’ answer; instead he asked Aramis to consider it and give his answer the following week.

                Sleep abandoned him long before the stars retired, and being that the moon was full, Athos took to the streets. He wandered until the sun was on the rise and then meandered some more. He was all too aware of what, or rather _who_ , awaited him at the garrison. Aramis had likely decided upon his course of action days ago if not immediately and so would be waiting in expectation of Athos’ appearance.

                _I can’t avoid him forever_ , he thought and turned in the direction of the garrison.

                “Athos?” The voice was quiet and timid amongst the din of Paris, yet Athos jumped at the sound of it.

                “For the love of God, Aramis,” the captain yelped as his hand flew to his chest where his heart was pounding against the confines of his ribs.

                “Have you been avoiding me?”

                “Have you been following me?”

                Aramis chuckled and shook his head, his curly mane flicking from side to side. “I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts refused to be silenced, so I went for a walk. And you? What’s kept you from your bed?”

                “We suffer the same affliction.”

                Aramis nodded sagely but did not press his brother.

                “Perhaps we should have sent you to a monastery long ago if such patience is the outcome,” Athos teased and lightly bumped shoulders with Aramis.

                “We should send d’Artagnan,” was the marksman’s reply, delivered with a mischievous grin and a wink.

                They strode in silence for some time until Athos decided to broach the day’s inevitable topic.

                “Have you decided?”

                “I have.” Aramis’ words were the quietest of whispers. “I should take the mission.”

                “Aramis, _should_ take and _will_ take are as different as the Musketeers and the Red Guard.”

                “I _have_ to take it. I can’t explain why, but I feel that I must.”

                Athos took two deep breaths before even attempting further conversation. “You should take Porthos with you.”

                “Athos, I can’t ask him to do this.”

                “And I won’t let you go without him.”

                Aramis opened and closed his mouth four times and then let his mouth remain shut. He wasn’t expecting that turn of events. Of course he _wanted_ company and abhorred the idea of leaving his brothers again so soon after being reunited, but he hadn’t expected Athos to demand he take Porthos with. “Thank you.”

                “I’m guessing you’ll need to give the Spanish a reason for your sudden departure from your country and your profession?”

                “Preferably one that earns their trust.”

                “I think I’ve an idea, but this is a discussion better held in private.”

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Together with Porthos, Athos and Aramis worked to create a plan that would give Aramis reason to leave without eternally damaging his honor in the public eye. In the end, they settled upon a scheme they’d employed before, and while it was far from pleasant, it was sure to work. When the question of when was asked, Porthos suggested they wait until the same day of the following week as the crowds gathered in the marketplace at that time would both aid the deception and provide a host of witnesses.

                They were just about to settle in for a drink before dinner when Athos sprang to his feet and began digging around in his desk.

                “What’s gotten into him?” Porthos wondered aloud while Athos continued his frenzied search.

                “I have no idea,” Aramis responded all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the captain.

                Nearly a minute later Athos held a sheaf of paper aloft, proclaiming “Here it is!” as he closed a drawer with his hip. “This is from Minister Tréville. He said this should help you gain the trust of the Spanish.”

                Aramis received the parchment but held it for no more than a second before Porthos snatched it away from him.

                “What’s in it?” Porthos asked as he scanned a page.

                “Military secrets.”

                Aramis ran nervous hands through his hair, one ceasing its previous motion to rub at a six-year old scar. Not a word left his mouth before Athos was speaking again.

                “Tréville made a variety of oaths on the graves of one and twenty men that this information will in no way directly endanger French lives.”

                Porthos watched Aramis while his brother processed Athos’ assurances. The marksman’s entire body relaxed, muscle by muscle, as the message was committed to memory and taken to heart.

                “We need to make a shopping list!” Aramis declared once the moment had passed. “We’ll need a pig’s bladder, and what did we use last time for the…”

                Aramis rambled on and on, but Porthos and Athos merely smiled and savored their wine. They had a whole week to prepare, a whole week to avoid considering their plan and the coming mission.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Aramis knew it was coming. He knew to expect it, but when a shot rang out followed by his brother’s gasping, his world came to a screeching halt. His own words echoed in his mind, “ _the funeral would have been beautiful_ ”. Porthos’ weight was suddenly upon him, his friend’s body shutting down supposedly as a result of the damage caused by the musket ball.

                _I hate this plan. I hate this plan. I hate this plan_ , he repeated over and over in his mind.

                Aramis lowered Porthos to the ground and immediately searched for the source of the blood spreading across his brother’s chest much the way ink would on parchment.

                “Porthos! Porthos, stay with me! Please,” he begged, the final word naught but a whisper. Aramis found he didn’t have to fake or force the tormented panic into his voice. Porthos’ eyes were slipping closed and his breathing becoming ever shallower with every passing second. It was the result of the brew Aramis had mixed together that caused the slowing of Porthos’ bodily functions, and Aramis knew that, but still….

                The blood covering his brother’s torso in addition to his now non-existent breathing painted a picture of death so realistic and visually undeniable that every fear and sorrow came rushing to the forefront of Aramis’ mind. Tears filled his eyes until they cascaded down his cheeks and steadily soaked his collar. He applied pressure to where the blood appeared to be leaking from, the pig’s bladder spurting more of its bloody contents as a result.

                “Dammit, Porthos! _Porthos!_ ” He poured every ounce of his desperation into his cries, his vision so blurry then that he could see little beyond vague shapes.

                “Porthos,” Athos breathed and rushed forward to aid Aramis.

                “Don’t you touch him!” The marksman roared. He looked back to Porthos and placed trembling fingers over his brother’s heart. There was no reassuring beat, no comforting intake of breath. Porthos was as still as death. Death. As far as the world was concerned, Porthos, his beloved brother, had just died on the filthy cobbles of Paris.

                “You killed him!” Aramis bellowed and threw himself at Athos. “You bastard, you’ve _killed him_!”

                D’Artagnan grabbed Aramis from behind and tore the flailing sharpshooter off of a miserable and ill-looking Athos.

                “Aramis, please, calm yourself,” implored d’Artagnan, but his plea was answered with Aramis’ elbow slamming into his nose with sickening crunch and a spray of blood.

                “Get off of me!” The moment Aramis freed himself from the Gascon’s hold he stood over Porthos’ body, weapons in hand.

                “Aramis….brother, it was an accident. I-“ Athos stammered. Their little show was clearly affecting them all, not one of them merely putting on a theatrical performance.

                “Don’t you call me _brother_ ,” spat Aramis.

                “ _Aramis, please_.”

                Athos steeped forward to lift Porthos from the dirt-littered ground, but he stopped short when the cold kiss of Aramis’ blade met his throat.

                “You will not _touch_ him.” The marksman worked to steady himself, shaking as he was from adrenaline and emotion. “You will not lay a hand on my brother,” he whispered, sheathing his sword once Athos retreated, then bent to maneuver Porthos onto his shoulder.

                When he stood with his precious cargo, the gathered crowd split, making way for Aramis to pass unhindered.

                Athos stood straight-backed with d’Artagnan hovering at his side until they felt there was enough distance between them and Aramis to follow.

                “Please let’s never fake a death again,” d’Artagnan whispered so quietly Athos nearly missed it.

                He gave a slight nod and put one trembling foot in front of the other, their anguished procession silently returning to the garrison.

\- : - : - : - : - : - : -

                Not a soul uttered a word as Aramis dragged his feet, moving between Porthos’ room and the stable as he made ready to depart. He’d packed as much as seemed sensible into his saddle bags. Then Porthos was wrapped in a sheet and laid across his mount, leaving Aramis with his final task.

                He made his way to the captain’s office and stood in front of the desk for several minutes before finally placing a new neck scarf upon the wooden surface.

                “Aramis,” Athos sighed, and, for the first time in Athos’ memory, Aramis flinched. “I feared you’d be gone already.”

                Aramis could only nod as he worked to cage the emotions threatening to tear him apart. Athos crossed the room, having sneaked in by another way, and pulled Aramis into a fierce embrace.

                “I had to leave you this,” Aramis sniffed eventually. “Porthos got it for you, to replace the bloodied one.”

                Athos pulled away to look at the scarf sitting on his desk.

                “He meant to give it to you earlier, but he didn’t get a chance before…” Aramis waved his hand in a vague gesture then ran it through his tangled hair. “I… I should be going. Porthos will wake soon.”

                Athos nodded and leaned heavily upon his desk as he watched Aramis walk to the door.

                “Aramis?”

                The marksman turned, his hand yet settled on the door knob.

                A flurry of thoughts ran through Athos’ mind then.

                _You don’t have to go._

_Surely there’s someone else who can be sent._

_Just this once, forget about what duty and honor dictate._

                On and on they went in the span of a second until only one remained:

                “Vaya con Dios, hermano.”

                Aramis smiled then, a weak trembling thing, but smiled nonetheless. He rushed back to Athos, pulling him into one final embrace and squeezing the way Porthos would.

                “He’d never forgive me if I left without hugging you for him,” he murmured and wiped away an errant tear.

                “Take care of him. And yourself,” Athos said, the smile absent from his features entirely evident in his tone.

                “I will. Watch over d’Artagnan; you remember what it was like on your first campaign.”

                “I do, and I will, else Constance will have our heads.”

                “Truer words were never spoken. I’ll send word as soon as I’m able.”

                And then Aramis was gone: out of the door, on his horse, riding with a gradually-waking Porthos to Spain.

                Athos took a deep breath, donned his new scarf, straightened his appearance, and emerged onto the balcony.

                “Gentlemen,” he called to the Musketeers milling about in the yard below. “Tomorrow, we ride to war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end of The Road to War. I do intend to write a sequel, so if you liked this story, stick around for that.
> 
> As I finished proofreading this, my iPod was playing “Lancelot Leaves” from the Merlin Season 2 Soundtrack. Oh, the irony.
> 
> I want to thank all of you so much for the time you’ve taken to read, give kudos, comment, subscribe and or bookmark this story. This is my first multi-chapter fic, and the support this fandom has shown continues to warm my heart.


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